


How To Spend Time With Family

by RockerRema13



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Lowkey cherik bc erik can only handle so much and charles is patient, Peter inherited self loathing from his dad, Peter is a Big Brother, Self-Esteem Issues, charles is very tired of these boys, dadneto, erik is doing his best, not intentionally greysilver but you can squint i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-07-27 21:59:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockerRema13/pseuds/RockerRema13
Summary: Erik is having a difficult time accepting that his tragic and cursed life now includes a long lost son.Meanwhile, Peter (his son!) seems to be getting along with everyone else at the mansion.





	1. Of Fathers and Truths

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting around to filling one of my own [ prompt](http://cannotgiveafuck.tumblr.com/post/158688866325/imagine-after-peter-finally-finally-builds-the) and I hope to finish it before Dark Phoenix breaks our hearts.
> 
> First Chapter: Erik & Peter, Peter & Jean
> 
> The prologue, Erik finds out the truth and Peter realizes he has friends who care.

Erik has a son.

Erik Lehnsherr has a _son._

He, Magneto, the mutant revolutionary, most wanted terrorist, former fourth horseman of the almost apocalypse, has an adult, mutant child.

 _He_ has a _son._

This boy - man, really, in his twenties - stands before him, bold and bright. He seems to buzz and vibrate, unable to keep still (because he is nervous? Or because of the situation? Because of Erik?) as he shifts from foot to foot, fiddles with his goggles and his suit's sleeves and his hair. Peter tells Erik they're family, father and son, so rushed and out of nowhere, he can hardly believe it. 

Erik doesn't know if he wants to believe it.

He knows the information given to him to be true. He traveled and hid among Romani groups for years after freedom, building himself back to health. They took him in, helped him as he helped them. In the last group he encountered there was a woman named Marya. They separated after a rather violent conflict with those still hunting them down. Erik encountered and fought through many violent conflicts during that time, and Marya faded to nothing in the midst of it all. 

He was a violent man with a purpose, a mission. 

(Would he have stopped? With the prospect of a child, would he? He doesn't want to face that answer.)

But now? Now all this leads up to the fact that he has a twenty something year old son. And Erik is having a very hard time believing that, believing he would ever have something like this again. Because Erik is who he is. And Peter is…

Someone Erik does not know.

But most importantly, Peter is his _son_ that he does not know.

“I...I don't…” very few can render him speechless, but this most likely wins by far. He doesn't know what expression crosses his face, what is supposed to be expressed, what he is supposed to feel or think or say. 

Erik doesn't know, because he's...

He's what? Elated? Confused? Shocked? Angry? So overwhelmed with emotions he wants nothing more than to shove them into the black pit in his heart, because having them both occupy his chest will surely make him burst.

This is too much, this information is too much and it hurts.

Looking at the brown eyes staring at him, unblinking, waiting for an answer, a reaction, seeing the guarded hope aimed towards him - it hurts.

“I...need time...to think,” he finally says. 

The words do not ease the aching in his chest. 

“Oh,” this might be the most still Erik has ever seen the boy (which does not account for a lot, were he cruelly honest). “Yeah, no yeah, I totally get it, man. I mean, like, I just dropped that on you and everything.” Peter is rambling, he's probably nervous. 

Erik sees how tense his body gets with each passing second. Thinks he may wind himself up too much, tear the whole mansion down once he's off. 

(The disappointment clear in Peter's eyes twists something sharp in Erik, so he doesn't look too hard there.)

“You were on your way out, but I couldn't just let you leave for like, another decade or something, so I had to tell you, but I knew that wasn't enough, so I had to go dragging shit out from your past you haven't thought about in years and probably forgot about. Because I'm fucking selfish like that, but keeping it to myself also seems selfish, there's no real winning here for either of us. I'm sorry, man, but yeah, you're right. You need time, I get that. It took me like a week to finally accept it. And oh boy, even longer for that fall out to pass. But yeah, sure. Take all the time you need. Thanks for listening. Bye.”

When the speedster (Peter, his _son_ ) is gone, Erik feels more hollowed out and exhausted than before. More unsure of himself and his future, his path. Moments pass in relative silence, as the sounds of children in the distance blend with the birds, the wind, the churning gears inside his head and acid inside his stomach. 

Erik doesn't know how long he stands on the steps of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Peter does not return.

Finally, he forces his legs to move and doesn't look back.

 

-X-X-X-

 

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god_ streamed through Peter's mind on repeat, a mantra of distress and astonishment at his own brazen stupidity.

Peter told Erik that he was his father.

Literally just dragged out the whole sordid affair and tragedy that was long ago buried, brought it to the light and polished it off so he can throw it Erik's feet and say _here you go, enjoy!_ He did that! 

And what was he expecting? What did he even want? Why did he do that? 

All Peter can recall was that Erik was leaving and he did not know where or for how long, but probably for forever and this was why he left his Mom's basement anyway, and holy shit, now that feels like forever ago. But really, Peter had two options there: let Erik walk away without ever knowing anything, or tell Erik everything, okay not exactly everything, because Peter only kinda briefly mentioned Wanda since she's out in the world finding herself and that is a whole other shitstorm to give the guy, but at least with this much Erik could decide whether he wanted to still get the hell out of here or not, and if Peter were a gambling man, he would've bet on Erik high tailing it.

And would you look at that, Peter was right. Because of course. Why would Erik stay? Why would Peter even want him to stay?

The blank look of disbelief and shock pressed on Erik's face said it all. Of course, he said he needed time. But, yeah sure. Erik needs time to adjust or whatever, come to grips with the reality that he isn't all alone in this big bad world, except he is alone because he still lost his wife and daughter, his real family. And no matter what, this world does it can't replace them with a fast, stupid kid that can break terrorists out of the Pentagon and out run explosions and is a useless, shitty free loader that gets his leg broken for being a cocky idiot. So, no, Peter isn't trying or wants to take their place, but…

Fuck, Peter should not have told him. _Way to go, Maximoff_ , inconsiderate bastard - hah, get it? - can't even let the dude process everything he's been through, the least he can do is give Erik time when he asks for it.

So, yeah, okay. Erik needs time? Peter can absolutely keep his distance, not bother the dude, not even think about him. He can do that, keep himself busy, forget about the horrible decision he made.

Tomorrow. 

Right now he's going to freak out because he told _Erik_ that _Peter_ is his _son._

Peter is not quite aware of how long he's been out, running laps around the property, around the town, until he feels a sharp cramp seize his leg up and then trip himself down, skidding to a painful stop somewhere across the grassy estate. But there he lays, groaning as he flips himself onto his back to stare at the sky as the sinking sun splashes dusk colors across it. The spasms in his leg settle to a dull ache that's fading away quickly enough and he wonders if he should have Hank take a look at that anyway. 

The cast literally came off last week, so Hank would probably want to know about stuff like that. But Peter will go after he's done laying on the soft grass for a few more moments. His body is still disagreeing with him. And is also a bit hungry. 

Okay, his body is a lot hungry, _jeez, Maximoff, really pushed it huh?_

It takes an embarrassingly long time - like, three whole minutes - to finally push himself to sit up. During which Peter wipes the grass and dirt off his face as best as possible, only feeling a few bruises and scabs already healing over. Standing is the next obstacle to overcome, and he gets there by the five minute mark, so he's not totally out of commission yet. 

His wobbling pace takes an even longer amount of time, his metabolism warning against running back inside, and when he's halfway toward the mansion Peter sees his knight with flaming red hair.

“Hey, Jean bean!” He calls out, not pausing or trying to cover up his limp. It is what it is and trying to pull one over on Jean is futile anyway, besides the fact that she saw him already. The best course of action, as it usually is for Peter, is to turn up the charm and ignore the problem. 

_Oh, this limp and giant purple bruise on my cheek? Don't worry about it, nothing out of the ordinary, everything is fine, got it all under control._

It's not exactly like lying, right?

“Peter,” and with his name sighed out with near exasperation, with sadness, he knows that she knows. “You've been running for several hours.” She comes to a stop in front of him and lays down the cold truth. “Projecting so much anxiety I can't even finish homework.”

“This doesn't sound like a thank you to me, but you're welcome anyway.” 

Yeesh, why would she want to focus on homework, anyway?

Because she's a good person, unlike _someone._

“Peter.”

Pouting at someone a decade younger than him, a few inches shorter, and dozens of times stronger probably isn't the most mature route to take, but Peter does it anyway.

“What if I think calm happy thoughts really loudly?” The look she gives him is a few degrees less withering than Wanda's, but she has the stance down well, arms crossed and everything, she'll get there scolding all the kids here in no time. Peter sighs and runs his hands through his hair, pushing more grass and dirt out. “Right, sorry. I'm good now, I promise. It's okay. I'm okay.”

Surprisingly, Jean drops her arms and puts the sad-face back on, walking up beside him, encouraging him to lean against her to lessen the weight on his dumb leg. She can't physically hold him up, but he figures she's working out her brain muscles because it feels like his right side is just a touch lighter. Peter gives her a grateful, lopsided smile that she hesitantly returns.

Jean doesn't smile much, he realizes and quickly determines to change that.

“You're not okay. I know that. This was a big deal-” 

“Big deal? Pfft. No it wasn't. It's done with, not even gonna bother-"

“And you can feel however you need without forcing it deep down. Doing that isn't helping you-”

Peter tilts his head back and groans in discomfort. “Please don't give me a lecture about feelings, I'm already drowning here.” 

“Which is why we're going to get you food and sort this out. You skipped dinner and training, you know.”

“Oh, great. Anyone else notice? Press their faces against the windows and watch me fling myself-”

“That's not how it is at all,” Jean says, calm in the face of Peter's minor freakout, bless her. “They're worried about you. We all are. You're our teammate and friend, even if we've been at this for only a couple of weeks, we’re in this together.”

Well, then, doesn't Peter feel like an asshole.

“So, Xavier didn't send you to make sure I didn't wipe out across his lawn and become some grotesque ornament to scrape off in the morning?”

She doesn't even hesitate in the face of his ramblings, already leaps ahead of everybody else that interacts with him.“No, he didn't send me. I think he's a bit preoccupied ensuring Erik doesn't destroy everything on his way out-"

God, does that reminder sting, he must really hate Peter, huh?

“Like I said, we’re all worried. The others don't know what exactly happened, if that helps you any. I only do because Ororo was thinking about it very loudly when she saw you run off. She didn't really send me, but thought I could help for some reason.”

Peter thinks on that for a moment. “Probably because you can… I don't know, knock me out? Tell me to calm down with a big brain wave?”

“I'd rather not,” she huffs out, a touch moody about her capabilities. Or because...

“You mean you can't?” A grin spreads across his face, “Right? Am I right? You can't read my mind? Right?”

Peter stumbles forward, but rights himself before he can actually bust his face a second time. At his indignant squawk, Jean smiles in victory and keeps walking. Peter can't really hold it against her, because yeah, he deserved that.

“You're loud,” she says, unrepentant and blunt, things Peter's starting to like about her, “but it's all too fast, you're too fast. Like a rushing river or a crying baby. I can't make sense of it all and I get a headache."

Peter thinks he should feel offended at that, but he's mostly relieved. His secret, that's not even a secret anymore, was safe and whatever runs through his head will be further safe from the resident telepaths. Not that Peter was ever worried about Jean, honestly, she's a good kid, kicked the Apocalypse to the curb and does her best to keep on keeping on. Her powers are just really...well, powerful. But that doesn't mean they're bad or dangerous, okay, maybe a lot dangerous, but definitely not bad, and that definitely does not mean Jean is bad or some ticking time bomb or whatever. She's a teenage girl trying to be her best and wanting to help others even if they're scared of her, and that's infinitely better than Peter ever was at that age, or is now. 

Oh god, she truly does remind him of Wanda. All power and fierce will and intolerant of bullshit, but full of heart and potential for so much compassion warring with being so fed up of everyone around her.

Good thing Peter never knew fear.

(A blatant lie, he knew fear plenty of times, but never of Wanda and her powers, and not now, of Jean and hers.)

“What am I projecting right now?” He teases, bumping shoulders and changing topics.

A look of exasperation tells him she sees right through him, but it quickly turns to concentration, and he's not certain if she's actively trying to read him or trying to keep his whirlwind of thoughts contained away from hers. Either way, she pauses their walk for it, breathing out heavily. “There's relief. Concern, maybe? Or sadness? Something else. Kind of happy? But also...a lot of red. Just the color red.”

Peter keeps smiling and wraps an arm around her shoulders. The brief cursory look must have been rough, for only a moment Jean looked off balance and ready to bring them both down. At least this way they can keep each other up. He makes a decision right then and there, because despite everything that happened, his friends are rad enough to check on him, to lift his spirits or something, so the least Peter can do is try along with them.

“How about this, Jean bean. We go the kitchen, the adult's kitchen and grab Hank’s badly hidden tub of chocolate swirl ice cream, for your headache and my steadily dropping blood sugar and both of our sucky moods.”

“And do what?” 

“Uh, eat it, duh.”

She's wary, sharp girl.

“Okay fine, I'll, I don't know, talk to you about stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“And things.”

“You mean, your feelings? Or why you wanted to test me?”

“Yes.”

She doesn't look satisfied by that, but she still walks beside him towards the teacher's wing of the mansion, which is great because ice cream and maybe even some sandwiches sound amazing right now, his stomach is trying to consume itself.

“Why is it …” Jean starts and pauses when they reach the kitchen and separate, she's not uncertain of what to say, because she's always quick and witty with words, she can give a tear down better than any teen heartthrob around, but whatever it is makes her ears flush. “You're not afraid of me. Since everything that's happened, since we've been on this team, since you've started living here, no matter if my nightmares shake the walls or fire shoots from my hands, you… I can feel your sadness and anxiety, but never fear. Never of me.”

Peter can walk pretty steady by now, but still doesn't risk falling back into his speed, so he goes about the task of grabbing the ice cream, and a few fixings of fruit and syrup for a sundae, at the normal slow pace of regular folk. Meanwhile, his mind races to find the words that could explain his dumb sentimentalism without being weird or awkward. Peter's never been one for sharing his emotions, because why bother? They come and go quicker than people can process their own, and if he ever did tell other people, they would try to drag out conversations or drama, which Peter is so not about. It just isn't worth his time or effort. 

But this? This isn't going away and besides, Jean is asking him and he's already decided on like, opening up or whatever. 

See, he can be mature when he wants.

“That's cause I'm not scared of you. Like, yeah, you can read minds and move stuff and turn into a big powerful bird of fire, but… I mean, you're still you. Just like I'm still me and no matter how fast I go, nobody's doubting my intentions or whatever, except if something goes wrong they usually suspect me, which is fair. I only use my gifts for mischief, I swear, not murdering people because let's be honest, no one would be able to catch me if I did decide to start murdering like, anti-mutant humans. And wow, that is not a sane thing to admit to, but hey nobody in this big ol school can claim they're completely sane.”

Jean stares at the bowl of syrup covered strawberries and bananas, taking a spoonful of ice cream as she briefly contemplates. “That's not really an answer, you know…”

“Yeah, I know, sorry. I'm bad at this kinda thing. But it's true. I've lived with a scary powerful girl before and I refused to be scared of her, so now I'm refusing to be scared of you. Full stop.” Half the bowl is gone and Peter forces himself not to inhale the cold treat unless he wants an epic brain freeze, which he doubts Jean would appreciate.

“Who was she?” 

Peter gives one of his convincing-too-hard, lopsided smiles, that is more an odd twitch of facial muscles. This was his idea anyway, and Jean came to rescue his sorry butt, and his wild moods have been messing with her, so he might as well go through with it, this weird bonding time, at least he sorta sees it as bonding and he hopes she isn't put off by any of this.

By the sincere look in her eyes and the waves of comfort and calm he knows is telepathically coming from her, like warmth from a bonfire’s light, Peter let's himself relax. 

Today kind of sucked, and he may not have a...father or whatever Erik is to him, but he at least has his friends.

“Okay, so I have a wicked twin sister, right, her name is Wendy and oh man, she can do some crazy things, I love it…”


	2. Of Sons and Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik & Charles. Peter & Hank.
> 
> Erik is still sad and angry, but he's trying, probably. And Peter... totally is not thinking about Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that read, commented, and kudos'd!

Erik doesn't know how long he's been away. The resurging grief of his loss coupled with the unexpected shock of Peter's news left him in free fall, scraping the walls of his mind for any purchase, any grip to hold onto. The proceeding weeks, maybe even months, passed by in a haze of tears and rage and silence. 

His family was gone. 

His family - his wife and daughter, Magda and...and _Nina_. They were gone. Ripped from him by humans who he foolishly helped, who he let his guard down around. And that was always what his suffering came back to - humans, and their fear and hatred of anything different, stronger, better. And that is what he is, everything they are afraid of. 

It never ceases.

His power and his past - fire licking at his heels and burning everything around him. He brought nothing but destruction to those he cared for. His mother, his childhood, Charles, Raven, everyone.

Why did he believe his family would prove different?

What would make _Peter_ any different?

Without even knowing of their true connection, Erik had exposed him to dangers starting ten years prior. He'd brought the end of world down upon his own son and watched as the boy faced an ancient mutant, had his leg _snapped-_

And why tell Erik? Why give him this information as he's leaving? As he is beginning to truly accept his grief? What did Peter expect would happen? 

Did he want a father? Did he want to see the fallen Magneto be kicked while down? Did he think he could make him feel _better?_ Fill in the absence in Erik's heart where Nina…

But Erik doesn't know. He doesn't know what Peter wanted because he doesn't know Peter, doesn't know his own supposed son because he _abandoned him._

And so his thoughts went, around and around, digging deeper into his soul, a bottomless pit he tried to circumvent but ended up falling into time and time again.

It was pure chance, not fate, never fate, that the first mission he went out on (tired of hiding and with no more tears to shed) crossed paths with Charles’ students. The X-Men, they called themselves. How laughable, were it not pitiful.

The children found at the abandoned complex weren't in mortal peril yet, but when word reaches the underbelly of society that homeless mutant children are squatting somewhere, it is information Erik cannot ignore. Not when the threat of humans and their government and Stryker are still hunting for any mutant to tear apart. 

No matter what facade of camaraderie Charles builds, no matter how wide humans smile or how many mutant hands they shake, Erik knows how easily it can divide.

He is not certain what the others expected of him during such a circumstance, but Erik knew what their goals were and honestly, his were much the same. What better place for lost mutant children to go, but to the open arms of Charles Xavier's school?

Throughout the encounter Erik notices the lead being taken by the young Summers boy, despite Raven being nearby, piloting their jet. The passenger seat would have been an excellent spot to join, but upon boarding Raven had immediately sequestered Summers up front with her.

Leaving Erik in the crowded back with three children, three teenagers, and...Peter.

It made for a rather awkward flight, as Erik tries his best not to look at Peter's direction, tries not to openly stare. The telepath, Jean, takes ahold of Peter to comfort the children. Erik watches as he lays a blanket across all of them, tucking them in at normal speed, whispering something to each with a gentle smile on his face. The children don't laugh, but their tension eases. They relax bit by bit and soon become distract as Peter talks, encouraging them. Jean comments here or there, but keeps a short distance. Erik suspects she is ensuring they feel safe.

It is certainly more than Erik would have been able to do alone. 

Meanwhile, the blue teleporter, Nightcrawler is what they called him, shoots glances at him, as if Erik would tear the whole plane apart at any second. In fact, the only one among the youngsters to not react to him with suspicion is Storm.

Needless to say, Erik did not fully intend on going back to the Xavier mansion, yet there he is. He also did not intend to once again stay longer than necessary. And yet...

By that night Erik is sitting with Charles in his study, a chess board between them and glasses of scotch at their side.

“Did you know?” He finally asks after silence falls from their previous conversation.

The bonus of conversing with telepaths is that he can do that, leap forward into a topic without any preamble or lead in. Even if Charles doesn't read his mind, he never falters.

“Not at first,” Charles says, ever calm but knowing the minefield he is stepping through. “Not ten years ago, and not when you left several months back. Ironically, I was the last to know.” There is a hint of annoyance in his words that he tries to bury.

“Did he tell you? Or did you-"

“No, I did not,” he says firmly and Erik feels relieved, though he should not be surprised. “I'd rather not have a migraine for an entire day, thank you. After you left, Peter and his friends became rather close. They're a team, after all. He came to me with their encouragement, since I do not think he would have done so of his own volition. I believe Raven had a rather heavy hand in that, as well.”

“Raven knew?” Now that surprises him.

“Yes, though I cannot say for how long. She and Peter had hit it off rather well since the start. Whether that is because she knew or it lead to him telling her…” Charles shrugs at that, though a note of pride is at the edge of a smile. He must be glad that his sister stayed, that she chose the responsibility of training the new X-Men, that she is also opening up.

“I'm surprised he did not come to you sooner,” Erik is aware that he is fishing for information about Peter, about the events succeeding his departure. He is curious, he cannot resist that.

“Hmm, while I attempt to be very open with my students and those who need my help, I believe Peter has trouble placing me as a trusted authority figure.”

“Does he, now? You?” Erik asks, aghast.

“Unfortunately,” Charles says flatly, not amused at Erik's jab.

“Perhaps that is because in your first meeting you looked like something Beast dragged in from the curb?”

Charles sighs and Erik counts that as a small victory. “Yes, I'm sure facing me as I am now was quite the shock. Washed and suited, bald and chair bound.”

Erik immediately feels like an asshole.

“That's not- I'm sorr-" He stops himself at the sound of the other's quiet chuckle. 

Ah, yes. Erik forgot how much Charles could also be an asshole.

“You two really are quite alike in more ways than you know,” he says, and Erik feels an unexpected thrill at that statement, as well as a pang of bitterness because he _does not know_ , which is the problem. “Now then, will you be staying the night, dear friend?”

Erik stares at their game of chess, long finished and Charles the victor. He glances at his companion, through the window looking out across the estate grounds under a bright moon, then down at his own hands. 

There is much to do, for he has been underground for far too long. His heart still echoes with a resounding ache, his desire for the future a cruel mockery. But then he looks at Charles smiling at him, relaxed in his seat for whatever answer Erik will give, but ever hoping for a certain confirmation. He thinks about Peter and his courage and disappointment months ago, his avoidance of Erik now. And a strong want fills him, a selfish want he has tried so hard to strangle because he shouldn't want in the first place, because he is nowhere close to deserving it, but…

But dear god, he wants to _stay._

Moments pass in silence before Erik nods once, firm and resolute.

Charles smiles wide and bright. “Good! Because if you want any more information on Peter you're going to have to get it yourself!”

Truly, he should have seen that coming.

\---

Several days pass before Erik breaks down and asks Charles where Peter is. The boy's powers gift him the ability to avoid Erik completely, the only sign he was ever there is the sudden food wrappers in the kitchen. Oh, and the rush of wind that unsettles the morning newspaper. Sure, he knows where Peter sleeps and simple metal locks cannot keep him out, but even Erik knows that breaking into his bedroom and waiting for Peter to return is not a good idea.

 _Try Hank's lab. Basement._ Comes Charles’ telepathic answer as Erik paces in front of the kitchen door.

_Charles-_

_You are causing some unsettled stirring amongst my students with your dark brooding, please go search for Peter._

_...Very well. Thank you._

_And do try not to start anything with either of them, please. In fact, maybe try... watching from afar?_

_I am not stalking him, Charles._

_Oh no, of course not, dear friend._

He does not deem a reply necessary after that. 

Minutes later, Erik finds Peter in the basement bunker, leaning far over a table where familiar sparks of machinery ignite. Hank McCoy, surprisingly in his true, natural blue beastly form, pauses his work and sticks a hand out. Without verbal instruction, Peter is gone and back again, handing something over. 

Erik weighs the chances of Peter running away from him should he reveal himself, the chances of Hank throwing something at his head, and decides that perhaps Charles may be right on this. He stays where he is and watches. 

Maybe he'll learn something.

They continue this for ten more minutes, much longer than Erik expected Peter to hold out for.

When the task is done, Hank pushes himself away from the table, chair wheeling itself back to another where more pieces lay. Peter is already there, of course, eyes fixed intently on what Hank shows him. A brief tutorial is given and Peter nods in confirmation.

“Got it, got it, easy peasy, man.”

McCoy sighs. “I wouldn't say rocket science is easy, Peter-"

“Really? Cause, I don't know about you, but uh, I think I'm doing a pretty damn good job at it.” Peter bolsters, something metal being tossed up and down in his hand. Presumably, the equipment he quickly put together.

“Careful! Don't break it!” Hank reaches forward, attempting to catch it.

“I told you I got it,” Peter says, now at a different table with four more metal pieces assembled together, identical to the first.

A rather guttural sigh escapes McCoy. “Fine, fine!” He concedes, turning back to his work. Like he already knows it will be fruitless to continue on. “But if you break anything I'm docking it from your allowance!”

“My allowance? Whatever, dude, I'm paid because of my expertise,” he gestures to himself haughtily, “Not because of some-"

“Expertise? Really?” Hank doesn't even look up from his table this time, tone incredulous, teasing. “You watch kids run all day and shout at them.” He holds his hand out again.

Peter places something into it, leaning against the table. “E-fuckin-xcuse you, _Doctor._ Not all of us graduated high school, jeez!”

“That's obvious."

“And not all of _you_ can run faster than light.”

“We have not tested-"

“I run faster than an explosion, than bullets, than Xavier can think,” he ticks off each finger. “Even Scotty boy’s heat beam. Me and Kurt are still tied, though, so you cannot even bring that up."

“I'm not doubting your capabilities, Pete. I'm just saying we have yet to truly test your limitations. Comparisons like sound and light may help, even past obstacles, like an ancient mutant with delusions of grand- Hey!” Hank snarls, rubbing the back of his head and turning towards Peter.

Arms crossed and rather sullen, Peter says, “I know I'm not fast enough, man, you don't gotta go for a low blow.”

Though he would have used far more aggressive and varied vernacular, Erik very much agrees. Despite their easy banter - and isn't that unexpected - En Sabah Nur still seems to be an obviously sore subject for the speedster.

That entire day is a dark pit in everyone's memories.

“Sorry,” Hank says, more sincere than Erik would have believed him to be. “I didn't mean-"

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Whatever,” Peter drapes his arm over Hank's shoulder. He shrugs and dismisses the entire thing as easily as he gives physical affection. No hidden bitterness or sarcasm, already moved on to the next topic.

Is he always this forgiving? This quick to let sensitive subjects drop without truly expressing his anger? Does he even have anger? He must, Erik reasons, Peter feels emotions like anyone here. Except he doesn't, does he? Peter's own sense of reality is speeds above others. His mind is a natural deterrent for telepaths. He must process his own thoughts, ideas, and feelings much faster than others can even register they're feeling anything at all.

All that time to think, and he still forgives.

How can this young man be his… _his son._

“At least I still have my beautiful hair.”

The tension from Hank's shoulders eases down as Peter talks. Erik is again surprised that he tolerates the younger, hyperactive mutant hanging on him. The Hank McCoy he remembered was barely comfortable with Charles or Raven touching him. Though, he supposes that impression is over a decade old. Afterall, McCoy's a professor now at a school with dozens of needy and tactile children and teenagers. Erik cannot say he knows who Hank McCoy truly is. 

They were never close to begin with, and any potential for amicable terms was thoroughly crushed after Cuba. And again after DC. And again after Cairo. In fact, Erik is impressed by Hank's discipline, for not trying to murder him on sight by now.

“Don't let Charles hear that,” Hank said.

“Oh please, his hair wasn't that great when he had it. He did not even style it into something cool! He just walked around, dragging his feet, or well, I guess wheeling around, too, like some...some barfed up Jesus vampire that was on a bender for three days and being in sunlight around other people was physical torture. How was he allowed around children, anyway? Did he take, like, fifty showers and think a good upgrade was telling an old grandpa getting out of church service to switch clothes with him and now there's someone's poor ol pops out there thinking baggy pants and dirty shirts and loose weird cardigans are a good combo look? Because I'm not saying the whole soft student counselor look is bad on him, but honestly, I don't know how he's fooling anyone. I bet he takes nightly shots of Raven’s good whiskey, too.”

As he spoke, Erik sees Hank go from incredulous to amused, unable to contain his low laughter that only seemed to spur Peter on. 

Fondness blooms in his chest as he stifles his chuckles, filing away Peter's assessment of Charles for later use. He understands now what Charles meant when he said Peter doubted him. Somewhere deep, Erik hopes no friction or ill will comes between them because of it. It's ironic, he knows.

“You think that whiskey is Raven's?” Hank asks, smile full of sharp teeth and secrets.

Peter perks up and disentangles himself from Hank to spin him around, holding the beastly man by his shoulders. “The whiskey in the top kitchen cupboard?”

“Oh, you mean _that_ stash,” Hank says, easily spinning back around.

“Hey now, no way, you can't leave it at that. There's more?”

“I thought you found em all by now, to be honest…”

“Look, man, I've been a bit busy lately, but if you're telling me that you guys got stashes of booze around hidden from the kiddies, then I will be more than happy to find them.”

“This wasn't a challenge, Pete.”

“Then where's Xavier's whiskey?” Peter spins Hank back to lean forward for emphasis, “Where's yours?”

Hank gives as much a bland face as he can when he is a literal blue beast. Which is a rather strong unimpressed expression, Erik admits. He must have had practice. 

“C’mon, dude, don't hold out on me like this. Sharing is caring. I bet that cupboard one is yours, right? Raven would definitely have a better hiding spot. But you wouldn't want to go all the way to the kitchen for a drink if you're down here, so you gotta have another around, right? I'll find it. Hold on.”

“Peter!” Hank doesn't even finish saying his name before he's back with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in another. 

“Never took you for a vodka man, Hank, but your taste is pretty gnarly.”

Erik recounts that it is a Sunday afternoon and cannot help the bubbling concern to march down there and take the bottle from Peter's hand. 

Peter probably has to teach in the morning. They're both working on machinery right now. They are adults able to care for themselves, able to carry each other if need be. This is not something Erik should _want_ to interfere with, but...

That doesn't stop the intrusive thought of _Put that drink down, young man._

Instead of moving, of voicing the unnecessary concern that's hitched at the back of his throat - Erik forces himself to stay, to watch them continue their banter and he feels a new, unexpected kind of emptiness begin to open inside him, dug up through the guilt and anger and want. 

If there is anyone in this mansion that Peter could make friends with, drinking buddies with, Erik concedes that Hank McCoy is not the worst option. 

That admittance does not bury the new turmoil, the ugly emotions, and Erik hates himself a little more because of it.

He turns around and leaves.

 

X-X-X

 

Peter wouldn't say he's avoiding his father, (or really, Erik Lehnsherr, the man who co-created him and upon finding out walked away), because if that were true, then Peter would be admitting to actually being scared of him and, pfft, _as if!_

He's not scared of anyone.

(Presently).

Peter just does not want to face the man that hates his guts and would probably sell his soul to Someone for a possibility of a chance to see his real family again, even if for a moment. And not wanting to witness disgust and disappointment every time his father ( _not_ his father, _Erik_ ) so much as glances at him seems like a very sane desire. 

It's self preservation, is what it is, for once in his life, because Whoever is out there knows Peter never had it from the start, what with his habit of going into places he shouldn't and hanging with people he shouldn't and breaking rules and laws and being generally reckless. This is the one thing he apparently is going to be contained about even though he left home and stopped the end of the world for the opportunity to see him.

Besides, who would even want to continuously face that, anyway? Who would willingly seek that dumb heartbreaking shit out? 

(Peter would, has done so many times, running by just to see him, but never stopping to be seen).

And honestly, Peter gets it - not entirely, because he has never witnessed his own family murdered in front of him, but he is definitely not mad at Erik for walking away. Peter wouldn't choose himself either.

_Jeez, lighten up, would you, Maximoff!_

The point is Peter is not avoiding Erik, but man, for a guy that fucked off for a decade the first time and three months the second time, he really is popping everywhere Peter goes, even when he's not seeking the dude out.

Want to get a four a.m. snack? Well, there's Erik brooding in the dark at the kitchen table with gross black coffee, looking at wet eyed and stoic. Go for a run around the grounds? He's out there surveying the entire place like he's looking for hidden enemies in the bushes or up in the trees, or like he's trying to find a way to communicate to whatever God exists that he's very tired, so please stop killing his family. Trying to get to bed for an afternoon nap? Too bad! He is literally pacing the entire hallway, seething in silence and making the pictures frames on the walls and the door knobs and railings rattle so bad no one goes up there except for Hank because he's not afraid of Erik, and Raven because she’ll tell him to stop or completely ignore him, and Xavier because...well, Peter doesn't really know, he just rolls up there, looks at Erik, and then rolls away, presuming Erik will follow (he does).

Peter has to drop into his speed to fucking get anywhere in this goddamn mansion, _the place where he lives,_ because he cannot face the dude who ironically does not want to see him! Like, if Erik actually wanted to talk to Peter about things or whatever, which he doubts, then why not just...knock on his door? Or ask for him? But he must not because instead Erik is spending his time in Xavier's study or stalking around the mansion like he's trapped here, which he's not since he has proven he can leave at any time, or itching to have a reason to want to destroy something. Probably Peter himself, if Erik could catch him, which he can't. 

So, yeah, needless to say, he is really harshing Peter's vibe right now.

Which means for the past several days Peter has been spending a lot of time in the bunker with Hank and his fun toys, and if anyone points out that he's hiding, then he'll tell them _no, Scott,_ he's being a productive and social member of this mutant micro society, don't be a prick about it. But good thing Hank dislikes Erik as much as it's reciprocated because the dude has not set foot in Hank's lab, which is double good for literally everyone involved, or even just living within the building, since despite looking like a class act geek ninety percent of the time, Hank surprisingly enjoys being his blue monster self in the lab and Peter is not really one for violence, so he would very much appreciate not getting a front row seat to the smack down match of the week, or having these neat gadget things he's helping build be Magneto’d into skewer weapons. 

It would be a shit show and they all literally just got settled in, so, hard pass.

“We shouldn't be drinking if we're going to finish this part of the project, you know,” Hank mutters when Peter hands him a glass, but he sips his drink anyway because he's actually a pretty cool adult, despite all the shit Peter gives him.

“C’mon, dude, a couple of sips isn't gonna hurt us. Here’s some orange juice,” Peter says, filling both their glasses, which he planned to anyway, because he never got used to tasting actual alcohol and enjoys his mixed drinks. “Now we're sensible.”

“It's Sunday.”

“Uh, yeah?”

“We have work...tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, Hank,” Peter says, slapping his shoulder and jostling his drink, absolutely on purpose, because Peter's a shit like that, “you gigantic geek."

“Hey!”

“Use that beautiful big brain of yours. Is this,” he lightly shakes his half empty glass, “one drink going to mess with _us_ so badly? Really, dude?”

“You've probably had more than one by now.” And yeah, he has, and yeah, Hank knows him pretty well by now, but...

“Not the point! But even if we take that into consideration, how lame do you think we are?”

Hank thinks for a moment, sipping his drink, completely unrepentant. At this point it's familiar back and forth.

Pros of hanging out with Hank: 1) the bunker is quiet and off limits to the kiddies, not saying Peter hates kids, he can entertain and watch them easily since he's done so for his little sister years ago, and they laugh at his dumb jokes, but sometimes he really needs a short break from their noise and demands and Hank is the nice quiet company he didn't expect would welcome him. 

2) Hank also keeps a stash of booze and smokes around, the latter rarely used if ever, except for Peter, who has learned to appreciate the Old Golds, though Hank swears they're not his (they're not, Hank hates smoking and swats at Peter every time he lights one, but Peter thinks Hank is catching on to the fact that he's swiping off from Xavier, but doesn't really mind him keeping the packs down here). 

3) He distracts Peter with productivity, something he never thought he'd be grateful for, but here he is helping to build some fancy robotics for their _Danger Room_ or _X-Jet_ and it's all very useful and smart and weirdly fun, like maybe he can stop thinking shitty thoughts for five minutes if he focuses on this corrosive material that can blow his hand off, or if reads this book on fucking rocket science so he can help put together some fancy weapon that he's not entirely sure Xavier to privy to.

4) If Peter doesn't want to talk about Erik, great, Hank doesn't want to talk about him either. 

5) Sometimes Hank calls him Pete, more a slip of the tongue at first but now it's a habit, which is new and strange because _‘Peter’_ is already sort of a nickname, and no one has ever shortened it before, since that sounds like something real friends would do to each other and Peter hasn't had real friends for forever, because in grade and middle school he had Wanda, and in high school he had the junkie punks that skipped class or dropped out and knew all the rad places to hang and steal stuff from, and after that, well, Peter stayed at home and tried not to get caught and die. He would almost call Hank like an older brother, except Peter never had an older brother and he's pretty certain Hank doesn't have siblings at all, so maybe they fill that familial-friend gap and that's why he's Pete.

“So, what you're saying is,” Hank speaks up again and Peter is on his third glass. “...alcohol does not affect you?”

“Uh, _duh._ Way to catch up.” It's how he won so many drinking games, why house parties were only so much fun until they got really boring and stupid, and why Peter sort of turned to adrenaline and smokes for vices, because he never really wanted to experience vomiting at over 200mph.

“How much does it take to affect you? What content proof do you-"

Peter groans. Oh dear god, _of course_ he would. “Later. We can attempt to kill my liver later.”

Cons? Sometimes Hank gets too into his _research,_ and by research, Peter means finding something interesting about someone's mutation and relentlessly asking questions and conducting studies, and it is usually Peter's since everyone else has been here for far longer, except for Scott, who got a cool visor out of it while Peter only got a working trial of calorie dense snack bars that taste horrific, which is a feat because Peter loves food and will eat almost anything. 

Also, sometimes Hank sighs so much when they talk about years ago, when he mentions Raven or Xavier, or gets too quiet after he stops mid-thought on someone he doesn't name, and Peter knows he's thinking about some dead friend, like maybe a hug would help get through this sad moment, and not only because he's the softest goddamn thing ever, but Hank would probably rip his arm off and Peter just….does not know what to do about that. He's good at distracting folks, entertaining, you know, having fun and living on the edge. Talking about feelings? No, thank you. It's not much a con, now that Peter thinks about it. Their...friendship just isn't about that. They relax, man. No student grading or existential crises or worrying about where or how they fit into others’ lives. It's nice.

Which Peter is very grateful for.

In fact, Peter is continuously realizing how grateful he is for his friends, and the universe bending truth that he has friends at all, since he's a complete loser that lived in his mom's basement and before moving out only had one friend and that was his twin, so it doesn't really count. 

“I'm not trying to kill your liver, Pete, but it does offer some insight on your metabolism and how quickly your body burns through intake.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

“But, if we're taking a prolonged break,” a fuzzy blue paw reaches for more vodka and tops his drink off, and that is totally the spirit, way to go. “I have more recorded Star Trek episodes.”

“Hell yeah, this is why I love you, dude.”


	3. Of Jealousy and Insecurities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh man! Thanks for reading and leaving such kind reviews!
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a monster compared to the others, but I just couldn't stop. I wanted to encompass some more parallels between father and son, while also keeping it within the theme of Peter spending time with friends.
> 
> Warnings: Brief descriptions of torture.
> 
> Erik continues talking with Charles. Peter goes on a mission with Raven.

It has been an entire three days since Erik has seen Peter. 

From what information he could get from Charles, Peter and Raven had left for a mission that involved scouting a facility northwards, in wooded mountain regions. That was where a military unit under Stryker’s control was last known to be, and though he is miffed that neither Raven or Charles informed him of the mission, facility, or Peter's involvement, Erik can at least recognize why they kept him in the dark. He is not a part of their X-Men and Peter is an adult capable of making his own decisions. 

Still, he is allowed to be annoyed.

Aside from that, he also knows now that even stuck at the Xavier Institute, Raven has not stayed still, could not keep herself away from the cries of their mutant brethren. That was something she was rather adamant about upon making her decision to reside here. While training the new generation of X-Men was important to her, so were the missions that required more stealth, more intel, and sometimes, more speed.

Apparently, Peter often accompanied her on these missions. Not only to provide fast and undetected transport, but also for experienced backup.

Erik cannot contain the immense flood of pride - for both Raven and Peter. 

“It's a bit of a learning curve for him, as well,” Charles remarks. 

They are at the kitchen table, in the middle of making sandwiches at a quarter past midnight. Charles had gotten a message that they were returning back, an estimated time of two hours.

“Didn't you say he is already well acquainted with his mutation?” Erik stares at his working hands making sandwiches and listens to Charles, though his mind snaps away.

He instantly recalls Nina's favorite of peanut butter and honey on warm toast, but just as quickly he buries the memories. Chicken salad is what they have in bulk from the store, though he wonders what flavors Peter likes best. He tries his best not to linger on the sullen pangs, lest his telepathic companion pick up on them.

“Oh yes, Peter very much knows how to use his gifts. I'm saying that these particular missions with Raven are good lessons for other skills,” Charles smiles briefly at that, something humorous only he is privy to, an inside joke between him, Raven, and Peter - because of course they would have those, they live together. “While Peter can get in and out of any facility before being noticed, he is rather...blase about the evidence he leaves behind. It wouldn't do for him to be targeted and pinned for crimes a speedster is suspected of committing.”

“And how would they think to do that?” Erik asks, suspicious that anyone would be able to pin anything on Peter. Not only because of his speed, but also because he is not an infamous mutant like Magneto, or even Xavier or Mystique.

“Peter has never really been quiet with his ability,” Charles says that like it is common knowledge, which it may very well be, except for Erik. “He believed himself untouchable and unnoticed for years, committing petty theft and breaking and entering.”

“Of course, but Pentagon must have left plenty of witnesses.” Erik recalls the one major event he shared with Peter and notices a shift in their conversation. Despite the casual mood, Charles is granting him pieces of Peter, his past, his history, that Erik may have never gotten otherwise. Or maybe, hopefully, would get in the future from Peter, himself.

Charles makes a noncommittal noise, “Yes, that certainly put him on the radar. From what I've been told that is how Stryker was able to identify him.”

Erik's blood turns cold and the butter knife in his hand vibrates.

“What does that mean?”

There is a pause as Charles looks at him with calculation, weighing each word. “After I was taken. Immediately after this home...was destroyed. From what I was told Stryker and his team struck right then, incapacitated everyone and selectively took Moira, Raven, Hank, and Peter to a hidden facility. That is the location they are investigating now.”

“That would have been great to know before, Charles!”

“I have told you this before, Erik.” 

Yes, he knows that but now it's _different._

“He used anti-mutant technology to render everyone powerless and then _identified him_!”

Peter had been taken by Stryker.

Peter had been taken, held captive by some anti-mutant military waste!

His _son-!_

“Erik!”

An irresistible balm of peace rapidly washes over Erik. The knowledge is still there, but no longer bright and hot at the forefront of his mind, the reaction has drowned, simmered to nearly nothing. No sense of acceptance and tranquility has ever been felt so strong that upon a second of evaluation he knows he is being manipulated.

“Charles,” he starts, false calm filled with poison, “if you do not stop-”

“This is not me, Erik,” and Charles sounds so very tired right then, so disappointed. “Hold on.”

He places a set of fingers to his own temple and closes his eyes for a moment. The gentle fog that suffocated every thought in his mind clears instantly and suddenly the answer, having been obscured before, becomes clear.

“Jean?”

“Afraid so,” Charles settles back into his chair and rubs his face. “She does know better,” he says, stern enough that Erik figures he is still talking with her, or she is listening in. Either way, it occurs to Erik that he had not prepared himself to be under the same roof as _two_ powerful telepaths. “But really, Erik your spike of anger does something rough for my more empathetic and telepathic students. So, please. I know, I truly do know the danger Peter and the others were in. I know that dangers are yet to come, especially from Stryker and the government and the military. The dangers that could have awaited them when they went back. Trust me, old friend, I know. While they live here, I will do everything in my power to protect them, just as they will to everything in theirs to fight back.”

Something like guilt bubbles in the empty space where Jean's artificial emotions had been. Erik understands what Charles is saying, knows it to be true, but the thought, the images that jump to mind of Peter captured and held in containment, in a cage, the prospect of what could've happened - it all fills Erik with such dread and rage and heartache. He is finally in a state of accepting Peter in, that to think that he could have been permanently taken without Erik ever knowing…

He does not believe he would survive the fall into that pit of grief again.

“Peter is here now,” Charles says, softly. His hand gently lays on Erik's and the balled up knife drops on the table. “He is here living and breathing and you have time-”

“Do I, old friend?” Despite the dryness of his eyes, Erik needs to swallow the lump in his throat. His own imagination haunts him. “Do I have time? We both know how unpredictably fleeting it can be. That no matter what plans we make...they might as well be prayers for how cruel time can be.”

“Oh, Erik,” and why does Charles’ voice turn soft and sad like that, every time he sighs his name? Does he truly only bring his loved ones pain? “That only means you mustn't waste the time you have now.”

Erik turns his hand over and Charles gives him a reassuring squeeze. So much time has been wasted already, so much of it taken away. And what is he supposed to do? What can he possibly do to make up for it? The milestones in his son's life that were missed, the empty hole of an absent father. There is nothing Erik can give that will fill that, but maybe...maybe he can try-

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I really hope there's more sandwiches because I'm literally starving to death.”

Erik jolts at the voice, separating himself from Charles and turning to see Peter suddenly standing in the doorway. He stuffs a sandwich in his mouth and picks up the plateful they had prepared. In the next moment he is gone.

“Welcome back!” Charles calls after him, less startled by Peter's appearance.

“We're in here!” Raven's voice carries over from the connected sitting room. 

As Charles begins to move Erik grabs ahold of his chair, pushing him forward, “May I?”

“If you insist,” is his cheeky reply.

“I am still upset you didn't inform me about this.”

“You don't remember when I informed you the first time, that's on you.”

Upon entering they spot the pile of Peter and Raven on the large couch. Raven is sitting in the middle, her head thrown back and legs stretched out on its recliner. No obvious wounds are on her naturally blue person, and one would be hard pressed to notice she had been gone in the wilderness for a week. Perpendicular to her is Peter, sprawled bonelessly out across the whole sofa, legs thrown over Raven's lap and the plate of sandwiches on his stomach. Unlike her, he is stripped down to sleeping shorts and shirt, dark bruises under his eyes match the ugly yellow and purple splotches on his hands.

Erik wonders if he should retrieve a blanket for them, or some pillows, or a first aid kit. The simmering concern only grows at the lack of their own.

“Did you have any trouble?” Charles asks in a hush.

Raven doesn't even lift her head, “No. All things considered, it went well.”

“And the information?”

Peter makes a groaning noise, mouthful of sandwich.

“Nothing dire. We'll debrief later,” Raven waves a casual, excused hand gesture, though the look she shoots Charles speaks plenty.

“Are either of you terribly injured?” 

Raven slowly shifts to stare right at Erik, her yellow eyes bright in the dim lighting. A defensive sort of reflex coils in the back of Erik's throat. He is not entirely sure what her gaze means, only that she is surprised he has asked after them at all. 

And why wouldn't he?

Despite everything, because of everything, his three most important people living are in this very room. He cares very much about their well being, no matter what they may think otherwise. And one of them, his last blood relative, his own offspring, lays sweaty and bruised across from him.

Erik waits on baited breath as Raven relaxes her tense muscles, a little insulted that his sincere question would garner such a reaction.

“No,” she finally says, “Some rough lesson handling, is all.” The half eaten sandwich is placed back onto the plate and she lifts it up, a request.

That isn't a real answer, and leaves him with more questions, but Erik considers their relatively unharmed appearances, down right exhausted, and decides not to push it.

Not knowing what else to really do, Erik's body walks over and takes the plate. Her gaze remains transfixed on him, watching his every move. This close to the sofa Erik notices that at some point in the past few minutes Peter had fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling shallowly while small twitches rack his nerves. Even unconscious he cannot stay still. He briefly wonders if it's truly exhaustion or if Charles helped him along. Raven's now unoccupied hand joins the other and Erik realizes she is kneading Peter's bare calves. Her hands seem to expertly massage each tense bundle of muscle, every few moments of pressure applied causing a small jerking reflex before his body settles down more.

“Is he…?” The question slips out before he can stop it, yet it lodges itself stuck. Erik stands there before them, watching Raven's hands as she watches him.

“He’ll be fine. Long distance runs for over several hours with minimum rest and food intake wear him out,” she says, already knowing his limitations, how he functions. “He's gotten better at scouting, but needs to work on compartmentalizing.”

More information Erik never knew. 

“How was the distance for you?” Charles rolls forward, a quilt on his lap that he hands to Erik in exchange for the plate.

Erik logically knows what it is used for. In this given situation, he does not know what he is supposed to actually do.

“Nauseating. I'm not ashamed to admit I made him stop more frequently.” 

Raven never stops looking at Erik, only taking a brief moment to glance at Charles when the blanket is transferred. After that she raises an expectant eyebrow at Erik. 

_Well, what are you waiting for?_

Erik's own eyebrows furrow down at the soft material in his hands. His eyes dart from Peter, body twisted in sleep and silver hair splayed across his face, to Raven's hands that never stopped massaging, to Raven's bright gaze piercing him through. 

_Stop wasting time._

His own hands tighten on the blanket before he leans forward, form stiff and tense. It's as if he is the one trespassing, interrupting them, when he hasn't done anything at all. This isn't private or personal, but the _intimacy_ doesn't sit right with him. Uncomfortable and intimidated at the prospect of joining, of being denied, he has no idea why these worries manifest. Putting a blanket on his sleeping son should be normal, should be _okay,_ yet his chest is cracking open from the effort. 

When he gently lays the quilt around Peter Erik's fingers move to tuck him in, brushing against his warm skin. They stray from their mission and graze over healing scabs along his knuckles. Erik wonders on what happened, what Peter encountered that required brute force, and he is vividly reminded that no matter how fast his son is, he is not impervious to damage, to being hurt. A twitch of fingers and it is enough to shock Erik straight to his core. His heart skips a beat. He takes a step back.

Peter snuffles in his sleep, undisturbed.

Raven keeps watching, settled under Peter's legs like she is right where she wants to be, like she has every right to be there, to be going on missions with him, to be leading and teaching him, aiding and healing him, facing dangers with him.

That deep pit of anger and guilt and bitterness opens up inside Erik again, just like a week ago, right where it hurts the most, and he finally has a name for it - _jealousy._

He feels it behind his eyes, his tongue, his lungs, straining to escape. The longer he stares at Raven carefully smoothing the blanket over the both of them, the harder it is to breathe, to blink. It burns. 

How can she sit there, comfortable and secure when Erik cannot even touch his own son's scraped skin? Cannot touch his own flesh and blood? How can he be such a coward, so weak in the face of this? And how can Raven revel in it so caustically?

But of course it's her, of course Peter entrusts himself with her. She was the first to know about _Erik and Peter_ before Erik knew, even before Charles. At the end of the world, it was Raven by Peter's side when he was kidnapped, when they were freed, when they faced down the apocalypse. Raven was the one that tried to save Peter when he was going to die. She was there when his leg was broken and he was recovering, stuck here with nowhere else to go. She is the one taking him on missions, training him, spending so much _time_ with him. 

Between the two of them, of course Peter would feel safe sleeping next to Raven, unguarded and vulnerable.

Not Erik, who can hardly withstand a fraction of the physical touch, who has brought nothing but suffering upon his loved ones. It makes him sick with jealousy, and knowing that only makes him feel worse.

Yes, he has made mistakes and bad decisions that have hurt others, hurt Peter, but now he is _trying_ and it shouldn't be this difficult to be a _father_ again.

“Erik?” He hears Charles somewhere far away, though he knows he is right beside him.

Raven blinks her yellow cat eyes back up to him. She does not take her hands off of Peter, grip tightening. Her posture begins to curl forward, alert, defensive - protective of Peter. Against Erik.

She thinks she needs to protect his own son from him? Keep Peter away from him with dangerous missions? Is Erik that much of a threat? Do they care that much for Peter?

_Of course they do. They were not the ones that abandoned him. They are not cursed to hurt him._

“Do you want to sit with him?” Her voice is a raspy whisper, very aware of the sleeping occupant. She looks like she is about to move, shift over, and…

_Oh._

“He would appreciate you being here.” Raven is giving up her spot for him.

Yearning swells up in his heart, mingling with the jealousy, because dear God, does he want to, but cold fear grips him. He can't move, cringing away at the thought of touching Peter again. 

His chest cracks open a little more.

He can't breathe.

Words crowd in his mouth, but Erik has no idea what he could possibly say, what he wants to accuse or deny or demand. He has no right to take Peter away, hide him from the world, keep him for himself. There is nothing he has done to deserve a fraction of the affection Peter shares with the others.

He wants, but he's terrified.

Feeling cornered where he stands, there is nothing to do but the obvious.

Erik turns and walks out of the room. 

X-X-X

Peter never thought he'd be back at this shit hole willingly, running here himself because he's an adult now, an X-Men, and that means facing things he'd rather run away from and investigating spooky government facilities that like experimenting on mutants, which, uh, he is. 

Ain't that just a barrel of fucking fun?

So, here he is, jumping over fallen trees and disabling old trip traps so no poor innocent critter gets caught, he would rather not see a dead deer, thanks, and oh, yeah, he's carrying Raven with him, too, since this is a mission that she's leading. She probably wouldn't cringe at seeing dead things because she's tough and badass and has Seen Things, but Peter is not tough and cried when Bambi’s mom died and always helps animals cross busy roads and tries really hard not to look at actual roadkill. 

Really, Peter's only here for transport. And speedy scouting.

For the most part it isn't so bad. It's much like what he's already used to, sneaking around and undoing things meant to keep him out, except this is outdoors with freezing cold temperatures and slippery, dirt-gross snow. He hates winter and every bit of seasonal change it brings. His limbs feel heavy, the wind burns his face, if he doesn't wear enough clothing he'd probably freeze to death, but if he wears too much he'll sweat and overheat. That isn't even including black ice on roads where he slips and falls and skids the top layer of his backside off before colliding with parked cars or guardrails, or how grossly wet and soggy his socks get through his shoes. Needless to say it is the literal worst. But he also hates to admit he kinda really wants to be inside, even if it is this creepy place, since at least the cold won't touch them.

Unfortunately for Peter, he can't get what he wants because it seems someone skipped out on the heating bill. When him and Raven get past the broken doors and into the destroyed hallway the chill still follows them. It clings onto his shoulders and hands and legs and face, making him shiver so bad he swears he's going to waste his energy vibrating to generate heat. Then what happens? Raven will have to shove his nasty calorie bars Hank made him into his throat and she'll probably choke him awake while she's at it. 

God, that'd be embarrassing and painful. No, thank you.

Maybe he should tell Hank he needs a warmer uniform.

Once inside, they get a pretty gnarly look at the place. Dusty and dirty with dried blood stains dark on the metal. The hallways leading in towards where they have to go - and isn't that welcoming - have splatters that are smeared across, like the person bleeding out tried to get away or they were dragged out. Peter loses count of possible body-shaped outlines after ten when they finally reach a doorway that Raven sneaks into. She doesn't have to sneak since no one is here, but Peter triple checks that statement just to make sure. He only goes around a few hallways because the dark brown puddles get larger the further down he goes and he sort of feels sick to his stomach stepping on them, thinking about who could have bled out right in that very spot, though he makes it back before Raven notices. 

Peter only spends about a minute outside the room anyway, looking down the hallway he literally just ran down, before he follows her in because destroyed pieces of metal and hanging wires make creepy as hell shadows with the dark hall's blinking lights and the wicked slashes on the walls complete the grisly haunted atmosphere. Like, whatever the hell tore this place apart didn't know how hard this enforced military anti-mutant base was supposed to be and just sliced and diced wherever they went and they sure did go everywhere. 

Peter is distinctly reminded of the new horror film that recently came out that he convinced the others to see about a dude with sharp claws that kills teens in their dreams, and they all thought it sounded dumb, but apparently the prospect of being murdered in your sleep, in your very vulnerable dreams isn't that fucking funny and they all camped in Jean Bean's room for like, three days before she kicked them out and assured them she and Xavier would know and stop anything like that from happening. Which, okay, fair, Peter absolutely believes her, it's just that he never has been one to think about the _what ifs_ until recently, never thought he'd be _caught_ and _hurt_ and think _ohgodI'mgonnadie_ before because he can just outrun everything.

Well, almost everything.

So, yeah, the whole goddamn place gives him the heebie jeebies and apparently he can't run from everything out there, so he does the safe move and sidles up next to Raven as she taps at a computer that's on its last leg. All the cracked screen shows is static and intermittent breaks of some code, but otherwise nothing. A quick look around the room shows the other screens are uselessly destroyed. She slides him a quick, meaningful look and he takes off, finding another computer room a few doors down with at least two working systems, and while he could mess with it until he figured it out, tech shit was never one of those sticking points for him, so he'd always have to reread the books or whatever, but he does not think fiddling with these will give him anything but another broken computer. 

Raven is better at this stuff, anyway.

“Unless we’re in danger, warn me when you do that,” she whispers, steadying herself for a moment before typing away on one of the operating keyboards.

“Okay, but counter offer, drop the spy act when we're not being spies,” Peter flops himself in the surprisingly comfy chair next to her, giving himself a small spin.

“No,” she doesn't pause her typing when her foot props up and stops his chair, holding him in place.

When they realized no one was actually here Raven dropped her _‘normal human’_ disguise for her natural, blazing blue form, where her expressions are twice as threatening. Despite the constant veil of menace around her, Peter finds himself more at ease, like yeah, they are both obviously mutants here breaking into this government shit, but they're a Team, so Fuck You. Peter never quite felt that mutant solidarity until he came to Xavier's, even when he knew of them and…Magneto beforehand. Even then there's something about being with the X-Men, about being in uniform, being with Ororo when they strut through the mall in style, not caring about the looks they get for their hair, and with Scott and giving every person a righteous wedgie that dares say something mean about him, and even with Raven, because yeah she's an entire blue skinned and red haired person, but she can change how she looks, just as Peter could dye his hair and slow down, but they don't because Mutant and Proud, or whatever.

Peter can't remember the last time he really trusted someone to watch his back. 

Not since Wanda, but well, she's not here, is she?

“Hey, look at this and tell me what you see,” there's a certain edge to Raven’s voice like she already suspects something but wants Peter to double check.

The speedster leans over and watches the screen, the messy static and colored lines breaking away for snippets of moments to reveal actual footage. It's too fast for Raven to truly pick up what's happening besides vague notions, but for Peter there is plenty of time. When the static shows again, he rustles through the desk drawers and snatches spare papers and pens he can find. He may have never been the most artistic hand of the family, but he can easily copy what he sees. 

A buff looking man strapped to a chair with wires plugged into him and some military fuck standing over him, the same poor sucker strapped to a table and a big metal helmet covering his head, another person with metal and wires all around them, and another person, and another, those same people - mutants, Peter knows with a sinking clarity- dragged across the floor, smoke and blood on their trail, and there is no sound but their gaping mouths and tormented expressions are painful enough that Peter can _hear_ their screams. A scene of them, Peter and Raven and the others down in the pit that blocked their mutation with Stryker overlooking them, the buff dude from before stabbing a scientist with fucking _knives from his hands,_ and he takes down a surrounding group with guns trained on him and doesn't even flinch when the bullets hit his arms and chest. Wires and tubes are still plugged into him, but he doesn't seem to care as he stabs and slices through everybody in his path, and Peter shouldn't feel bad for these guys, he doesn't really, except he's never been one for violence and gore and seeing it happen again and again, a litter of bodies falling at this guy's bare naked feet as he goes down the hall sort of makes Peter sick. 

He keeps watching, sketching for the others to review later, and the halls look familiar now, the ones he scouted earlier with their dried blood stains that remind him of Freddy Krueger, but this guy, with two fists of knives would slaughter that nightmare man like it was nothing. This guy actually scares him, his face always obscured in darkness and the metal helmet, the static of the computer only makes him that much more untouchable and terrifying. Knowing he once haunted these halls makes Peter's hairs raise. Knowing he was made this way sinks his stomach.

What the hell did they do to this man? Did they mutate him even more? Is that even a thing? Or maybe he's some sorta Frankenstein's monster of mutants? Or was he just some regular guy they kidnapped and tortured into madness?

Either way, they did this to him, fucked him up so bad he's more wild animal than man. They deserve what they got, but…

“Quicksilver?”

He snaps out of his daze, staring at the static and at his stilled hand. The sketch is of the man, his knives through a guard’s neck as he is kneeled on the ground, leg broken, hair twisted and head pulled back, except it's not a guard, _it's Peter_ , which is dumb because yeah, this dude is scary but he isn't here anymore _(but like, what if he is? they don't know what else he can do)_ and Peter isn't afraid to...to die or something.

He's here! Alive and well! Not skewed through his windpipe and choking on his own blood! Not dead under piles of dust and debris as the world ends. Because the world didn't end and he didn't die and that wild man isn't here. So with that settled and done with Peter crumples the paper and shoves it in his suit and pushes the other papers towards her as he pushes himself away, hoping she didn't notice and hoping that if she did she won't tell Xavier even though she most likely will, and that is not a conversation Peter is looking forward to dealing with.

God, he feels hot and not in the sexy way, in the gross way where his suit is too tight and uncomfortable and is giving him a wedgie.

Wasn't it really cold, like minutes ago?

“Got a few snapshots, but uh...it's not pretty.”

She eyes him for a moment - and he doesn't know what she's searching for or what she finds there, so he tries to keep his face neutral but he knows it always comes off as more distant moody teenager even at this age - before looking down. Raven doesn't even flinch at the image of the hallway full of bodies. Of course she wouldn't. As she flips through the pages, her expression becomes stoic and blank, and damn, she definitely pulls it off better than him. She's gotta be used to worse things than badly sketched horror scenes, and Peter can't help the flutter of envy at that. He shouldn't, but when his eyes stray to the computer screen again it replays the same snippets of tortured mutants no older than his little sister, than his friends, than himself, and Peter hates the twisting in his gut, that he can't handle these small moments when he didn't even go through them, didn't live through them.

Peter watches the men's gruesome deaths again and again and something bitter inside him thinks _good, they deserve it._

But do they? Are they actually supporting Stryker's anti-mutant agenda or are they poor schmucks following orders? But apathetic soldiers have done that before and look what happened. His mother never told them much about when her and her family were on the run, but Peter knows enough. He thinks of Erik and his anger and how he has every right to it, how Erik has lost so much, that he probably wouldn't bat an eye to these men being slaughtered, would rejoice in it, probably, but Peter…

Peter doesn't feel bad that these guys are dead, doesn't feel sorry for them, but he when he thinks about the _what ifs_ of their futures, of them changing, being better people, he wants to look away because Erik would've killed them, Raven would have, too, and here he stuck on the spot even though his preference is clear, he's just a… a coward.

He's a coward because he wouldn't kill someone? 

_Jesus, Maximoff what the hell is your deal?_

And god, what a loaded question _that_ is. 

The air is actually still cold but Peter is sweating bullets, like a fever boiling under his skin, which is dumb because he never gets sick.

“Hey, Silver. You okay?” Raven is folding the papers, tucking the murder scenes in her pocket like she compartmentalizes everything else, because she has to and she can.

“Yeah, peachy, great, hey, are we done here with...that?” Peter can't even look at the monitor anymore, the static and images still playing over and over.

She's still watching him as she nods and turns back towards it, closing the program and typing away, like what they revealed can so easily be erased, swept under the rug, forgotten. And maybe it can be, but Peter is too much of a wimp to do it.

Peter doesn't really know what to do to get it to stop, the images flashing across his brain, even as the screen shows words and files. They're still there. The woman with the changing skin, crying with red snot and saliva running down her face. The boy staring dead eyed across the room, not even flinching as they poke and prod and cut into him, but he was alive because Peter saw him blink, saw his chest rise and fall until it didn't anymore. The girl that rattled the chair and shook the camera, no one able to get close enough to accurately do anything until something shiny flew across the screen and struck her in the chest, and Peter doesn't know if it was off its mark or exactly on target because the shaking stopped and she just sat there with her mouth opened for what seemed like forever until someone was dragging her by her dark curls across the floor. She didn't even look like she hit puberty yet, and it's right there, seared in the back of his eyes and Peter _doesn't know what to do-_

“Quicksilver!” Raven has that commanding voice, stripped away of its whisper. She sounds exactly like Officer Burt and Holstead when they caught him on his first graffiti mark, like they were surprised it was him but it wasn't  
totally unexpected, or when his mother first caught him smoking even though it had been six months since he started, and he still believes Wanda gave him up with that.

Peter doesn't realize what he has really done until he blinks a few times, the images gone, and he is no longer in the room. Instead he's standing in the hall again, facing the wall that has a considerable dent in it. Flecks of fresh blood are there, too, and a throbbing in his hand must finally reach his dumb brain because when he looks at his knuckles they're scraped raw and bleeding. And it hurts, yeah it really fucking hurts, but it's not enough, it doesn't hurt enough, he _did not do enough, he's never enough._

“I'm fine,” feels like a sorry thing to say, feeble at best, and Raven's doubtful look tells him so, but it's all he's got. “I'll be right back.”

The next thing he knows Peter is standing in a familiar room, seeing familiar stains and equipment. He sorta expects there to be someone, a scientist or Stryker or the wild man or one of the mutants, and a dreadful pit in his stomach pushes him to go deeper, to open every door and every drawer, search every crevice and corner, like he'll find someone, anyone, if he looks hard enough. Peter knows, though, he _knows but what if._ So, he tears the rooms apart, rips the wires from the chair and throws the tables over and kicks every computer he finds, like each item is a culprit, like if he destroys every single thing here it'll never be used to hurt someone again and Peter can go home without the ache in his chest. 

When Peter gets to another door it's no more foreboding than the others, no hazard signs or warnings or caution tape, but once he opens it he knows what he's looking at. See, when Peter found out about who his father was and then finally accepted that life altering truth, he had to know more, so he took a trip for some stupid soul searching reason all the way to Auschwitz and stood in front of the chamber doors and looked inside the dark, corroding structure, but never stepped closer, not because there was anything inside or he felt great waves of emotion, but because it felt like he was trespassing, like he wasn't supposed to be there, wasn't supposed to see the arching shadows or dusty grounds, a part of a past that wasn't his to witness, something so awful it felt wrong to be there for his own selfish gains. It made him feel uncomfortable, like an unwanted tourist, and no more closer to his father than he had been.

(Ironically, apparently he was very close to where Erik disappeared off to.)

But standing on that historical and tragic ground is just like standing here, in front of this inconspicuous door in the depths of a secret government facility in the middle of nowhere that no one else will ever find or know about, because despite all that difference, the purpose is the same. Peter stands there and knows. He sees the overreaching darkness stretch towards him, barely hiding the scattered piles of ashes and the scorch marks. 

Peter knows he won't find anyone here and none of those taken mutants will be noticed or remembered or even identified. Nothing will happen. He'll go back to the manor where his friends are and be able to see his father and visit his mother or little sister on the weekend and though he doesn't know where, his twin is out there, too. Peter will get to sleep in his own comfortable bed and wake up in the middle of the night to get a snack and then watch the sunrise as he runs laps around the ridiculously green estate. After this mission he'll have tomorrow and the next day and the next and then next week, month, year. He has time, and they don't. None of them have anything, anymore. 

And what the hell did they do to deserve that? They were just mutants picked off the street because they were easy targets, because nobody would care if they were gone, nobody would look for them.

What the fuck did Peter ever do to deserve the good life he got? 

_Nothing, Maximoff, you did nothing, all you've ever done is run and let others clean up your messes._

So, as Peter stares into the dark room, that overwhelming need to move, the feeling that he arrived too late with too little, rushes back again and he clenches his fist until his scabs break open and bleed, and it's something but not enough, it's never enough. And he wants to find out more, dig up the secrets and the names, but he can't stand being here any longer, so Peter takes a deep, shuddering breath and when he exhales he is outside again, whipping his goggles off and shaking his hair out. The cool, forest air is better to breathe in than stale chemical and body ash, but those still cling to his nostril hairs. He can smell them on his uniform. When he closes his eyes he can see the darkness of the room, the images of the mutants flash behind his eyelids.

At least it's quiet out here.

“Quicksilver, report. Now.”

Oh, right. He sorta left Mystique back there.

Peter takes another deep breath, “Yeah, yeah, hey. Still here. Just, uh… hanging around. Checked the place again. Nothing here. I'm outside, by the way. Don't worry, didn't trip an alarm or get trapped in a crematorium or or or, like, a spike pit or whatever.”

Everything is quiet again and Peter wishes he'd stop letting his mouth run off.

“Good to hear, I'm on my way out. Don't move.”

“Cool. Good. Awesome. See you soon.”

There's nothing else to do but wait. A rare occurrence where moving is not as appealing as it should be. He tries to get the soot off of him - ruffles his own hair, blows his nose on his gloved hands, wipes his face with the crumbled paper in his pocket and he needs to remind himself to pack tissues next time. His goggles are dirty, but no amount of wiping them down will get them clean, smudges streak across them and he knows it's going to be a bitch to run back in them. And Peter has never wanted a shower more in his life.

_At least you get to go home and shower, wash their ashes off your hands._

“Jesus, Maximoff, can you just chill for, like, a second!”

“I don't think you're physically capable of doing that,” because of course Raven heard him.

“Hey, I resent that remark, I am full of chill, I can chill for, like ever. The master of chill. Got a PhD in that shit.”

“You hate mind numbing movies and shows-”

“They're boring!”

“-read through five books in one sitting-”

“C'mon, that's impressive. I keep the school's book club alive and they know it.”

“-and cannot play one video game without changing it every three seconds.”

“Excuse you, I multitask my game play, and no one has been able to beat my records at the arcade yet! But that's besides the point, my definition of chilling is just different from literally everyone else!”

Raven sighs, her arms crossing over her as she changes back to her human disguise and her uniform to a more weather appropriate attire. Peter knows what she's going to say. That's the same posture Wanda and his mother (and even Jean and Xavier) get often enough, except Raven doesn't slouch in resignation or make random items around them explode. 

“Peter.”

And god, her too, now?

“What? Are we done here? Can we leave? You got all the information, right? So, let's get going because this place is giving me the creeps, and it's not just the broken lights and the blood stains and hanging wires and knife marks everywhere or that we were, like, kidnapped literally months ago.” He should stop talking now, just shut his mouth and put his dirt goggles back on and grab her and get as far from this place as possible, maybe only come back with Magneto so he can churn this place into a metal ball or flatten it to the ground. Raven is staring at him, waiting him out, not saying a word, not moving a muscle, because she knows him too damn well. Peter keeps talking. “You saw the videos, right? Like, the whole terror and torture show? I drew those, all of them so you have something to take back and show Xavier since reading our minds is a no-go for him, so you have them all right in your pocket, you saw what they did here and who they kidnapped and what happened to them all, I told you it wasn't pretty, but you just, you can just fold it all up and put them away, deal with it later, think about them later, you can do that because you're you and you're badass and tough and have seen crazier shit than this, but I, I'm just some dumb kid out from his mom's basement after a decade, I don't know fuck all, except this, all this secret government military level mission bullshit can just take mutant kids from the streets and torture them and rip them apart as they scream and cry and then throw them away, burn them to ashes and they, these sick fucks did that so they deserve, they deserved to to to get their asses kicked, I know that, but seeing them get torn open and bleed out on the floors and then walking right where their bodies were, where their blood is just left there dried up like those ashes, I just, I. I…”

“Peter, breathe.” Raven is right in front of him, blocking his path, and for the first time Peter notices he was pacing. He finds himself short of breath.

“I shouldn't feel bad for those guys, but it bothers me, this whole situation sucks and I can't...I'm not like you or, or Erik. I'm. I'm just a coward.”

“No, Peter, you're not like me or Erik, but that does not make you a coward.” Her hands grab hold of his shoulders and give him a shake until he's looking right at her. “You are not a coward.”

“I'm no X-Men, eith-”

“Shut up. Why do you think you're on this team?”

Peter doesn't point out the contradiction of what she said, knows she would actually hit him. “I mean, I'm literally the fastest man alive, so there's that.”

“Yeah, you're fast. What else?”

What else? What the hell kind of question is that? What else is there?

“Uhhh. I don't know. My charming personality and witty humor?”

Raven doesn't laugh, in fact, she looks more determined. “What else?”

“Pfft...I don't, uhhh. Jesus, I don't know. You all felt bad for me? Couldn't turn away a mutant kin?”

“What else?”

“What else? I don't know! There isn't anything else! I'm just fast, that's it! I got nothing else! I'm not, I'm not smart like Jean or Hank or a leader like Scott, or experienced and kickass like you, or powerful like Xavier or Ororo, hell, you all got Kurt if you want fast, I'm just the extra here. I got nothing! I'm. I'm just…”

“You finish that sentence and I will kick your ass,” but despite her words, Peter can't recall seeing Raven this distraught since they both confronted Erik all that time ago. “Peter, yes, you're fast, but you have heart, and Jesus, I'm sounding like Charles, but you caring for others, having empathy and not wanting people to die, trying to save everyone that you can - that's not bad. You are not a bad person and you're not nothing or weak or whatever stupid thing your brain is telling you. It's a good thing to care. You are part of this team, you are an X-Men because you want to help and you have the courage and heart to go out there and do that. You are here because we want you, not just because you're fast, and certainly not because you're like me or Erik.”

And Peter does not know what to say to that, because on one hand, everything she's saying is making his brain flare up, like this cannot be really happening and those cannot be actual sincere words Mystique is telling him to his face this has to be out of pity or tactics or something else besides truth, but on the other hand, everything she is saying is making him feel heavy headed and light hearted and when she finishes and stares at him a little longer before squeezing his shoulders and nodding, like she _gets it,_ he is _this close_ to crying and he really does not want to do that right now because then it'll be extra hard to run back home.

So, Peter rapidly blinks away the wetness and clears his throat, nodding his head in agreeance. Because yeah, Peter wants to be here, doing these missions, even if they're hard to get through, even if he'll have trouble sleeping later, he'd rather that than always regret not going, not helping. And apparently they want him here, too. Even if he is a cry baby.

“Good, now let's get out of here and find somewhere to eat.” 

And Peter laughs, feeling better as he shoulders his troubles away and readies to settle his goggles back on. Raven grabs hold of them, wiping the smear of ash and tears until she decides it's a useless effort and hands over her own for him to wear instead.

“Yeah. That, uh, sounds good. Let's go home.”


	4. Of Friends and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik continues to stalk, err, observe Peter. He even manages to say something to him.
> 
> Peter spends time with his friends. 
> 
> Charles is doing his best not to interfere too much, but Erik really does need the help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry for the semi hiatus, was working on other stories here. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I didn't get to finish this in time for Dark Phoenix, but we all know canon doesn't matter!
> 
> And fortunately yall get a nice big update!

When it came to staying at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Peter did not know if it would be a permanent decision. 

After Cairo, with a broken leg and persistent, stupid desire to be close to Erik, Peter stayed since he did not have anywhere else to go and he refused to crawl back into his mom's basement. And hey, they all clearly needed a hand in rebuilding. Which is really all Peter could offer seeing as he couldn't zip around to actually help, but he noticed they were not really short handed for that task since Jean and Erik counted as, like, fifty hands each, and Peter knew fuck all about blueprints and infrastructure, so he stayed out of all of that. 

The only thing he knew he could do in those desperate few weeks as everyone was running around between CIA questioning and wondering if anyone would try to attack them and attempting to rebuild their home, was look after the youngsters that couldn't move back to their parents, for one messed up reason or another. So there was a lot of camping out at a nearby summer lodge that was closed for the season, but not closed to the persuasion of money, which Xavier had an abundance of. With the enthusiastic Jubilee, whose wicked fashion was exactly what this school needed a lesson on, Peter found he kinda liked bossing the kids around and making sure they had enough fun to forget about the fact that their one home was destroyed around them. It was also kinda nice that the kids gazed at him like some sorta hero, like he saved their lives from an explosion or something.

That was how Peter truly realized he was good with kids, and even liked being around them.

And, yeah, he's always known he could be entertaining and keep them outta trouble, or encourage it, depending on the situation. He's known since he was always left with watching his sisters while their mom worked double shifts to support them, though really it was Wanda watching them because Peter was too busy causing mischief, but at some point it was just Peter watching his little sister because his twin sister locked herself in her room and refused to come out, and then it was just Peter and Linda because Wanda was longer there. 

And sometimes he'd stumble on some kids who didn't quite fit in, having something really odd about them that not just anyone would notice, but not wanting to take a chance on anti-mutant shit happening on his watch, Peter would nick some things for them, like hats or sunglasses or too big coats, and tell them what places to avoid and where they could go if they wanted to lay low. 

So yeah, okay, Peter is pretty good with kids and was trusted to be a temporary camp counselor for the little mutant tykes and teens, and when the mansion was finally done, Xavier offered him an opportunity that he couldn't deny even if he had an alternative plan for what to do with his stagnant life. Become a gym teacher and take the first college courses Xavier's institute was testing out, while training as a X-Men? Hell, that definitely beat mooching off his mom and hiding in her basement for another decade, sign him the fuck up.

Now, months later, Peter is beginning to suspect he may be staying at Xavier's for the foreseeable future and he isn't really complaining about that.

For one, he's actually doing something here. And that's not only because he goes out in a cool, fancy suit and helps mutants from shifty government bullshit or anti-mutant hostiles. It's the simple fact that he's with these young mutants who come here looking so scared but find they have a place to call home, they have people they can call friends, and they learn to trust other mutants to teach them, and sure, Peter is more of an assistant with their mutant power training, but he lets them have fun in regular kid ways like kickball or track running or yoga. He also let's some cheating happen with use of powers, but hey, it's all a part of learning, and they can't pull one over on him, so it's all good. 

No one can say Peter is a crybaby, except maybe Wanda and his mom, but watching some kid who was so suspicious and tense, finally rid the weight of the world off their shoulders and _laugh_ \- that damn near brings tears to his eyes.

Aside from that, Peter finds that he's also made friends himself, and trust him, he is the most surprised about that out of anyone, and he expressed as much when he first called home and spoke to his mom and little Linda, who is not so little anymore since she's off at college now and making friends and a life of her own. They're both doing well considering the shitstorm months ago, and he is so so relieved they're okay. He hasn't told them about Erik, couldn't bring himself to, and he knows he's being a coward, but hey, he's already been through an almost apocalypse and has actually told the dude he's his son, so that definitely counts for something. 

His friends know, though that's mostly because they grew too suspicious over the secret keeping Ororo, Jean, and him were having, and really it was Scott who got moody about it and convinced Kurt to side with him, which makes it a grand total of six others living under the same roof who know. So, really, by that point it wasn't even a secret anymore. 

Peter is not entirely certain how he feels about Xavier, honestly.

His friends adore Xavier, all of them, and for good reason, but Peter… he doesn't know.

“It's not because he's telepathic,” Jean Bean states out of the blue, probably catching his vibes on Xavier, because _duh, Maximoff,_ wicked telepath literally right there.

Peter stuffs another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth and shivers against the chill instead of answering. 

They're sitting at the kitchen table, a quarter past three at night because Jean was on the cusp of a nightmare, and Peter knew it when some of the smaller items in his room suddenly lacked gravity. Luckily, Peter was already awake, having gotten his four hour sleep, and sped in to see what level of nightmare crisis they were dealing with - another apocalypse future vision or the run of the mill walked to class in underwear, or the even worse imagining Scott in underwear. 

There was risk in waking the mean bean machine Jean up, of course there was always risk, of getting thrown out the window, being stuck to the ceiling, having everything in the room bruise his face and eventually having to call upon Xavier, who would sigh and look exhausted and make Peter feel guilty for wanting to help. This time, however, Jean wasn't too far deep that his tactics actually worked - the insistent face poking and whispering her name over and over again until she was annoyed enough to slap his hand away, and his Walkman’s volume on high so she could hear the sweet tunes of _Blue Oyster Cult_. It was a homebrew strategy he perfected when Wanda had her night terror fiascos and things in their room, and then her own room, since they grew older and Peter called dibs on the basement, would explode, but he had also implemented the highly risky cuddle maneuver with his sister, which he does not believe Jean would consent to. 

So, minus the hugging, his strat worked and the shaking of her room stopped, if leaving it in a bit of disarray. But that fell to the wayside as Jean shot up gasping with tears in her eyes. It took moments for her to catch her breath and settle her heart rate before saying, almost like a command upon waking, like a secret code only they were privy to, “Ice cream.”

Peter supposes that it sort of is their secret code. When they're both wide awake in the middle of the night and refuse to talk about the thoughts that plague them in the dark, Jean and him seek comfort in the cool embrace of ice cream. It's easier than confronting the real problems, and Peter has a lot of experience with running from those pesky things. Sometimes they watch the sunrise, sometimes they go back to sleep, sometimes they watch stupid infomercials on television and Peter gets the crazy idea to run to the nearest payphone and call in with an absurd fake voice as Jean watches in real time, and sometimes they talk about other shit they don't want to deal with in the light of day, but is vastly more preferable than their immediate hauntings.

“If it were,” she continues and Peter has a sneaking notion she won't stop, “then you would be uncomfortable with me.”

“I'm only uncomfortable around you when you and Scott make gross eyes at each other.”

She lightly kicks him under the table, not nearly as hard as when his sisters kick him, and he swipes a bite of her frosty chocolate. “Stop deflecting.”

Peter sighs in a dramatic fashion and he knows that Jean knows that she won. “It's just weird is all, and not like, in the mutant way, because sure, whatever he can read and control minds, but the whole… clean up act. It's jarring, dude.”

“What makes you think it's an act?”

God, she is relentless. “Well okay, not an act, like I'm pretty sure ninety percent of the whole redeemed soft grandpa look is sincere, or maybe more like seventy, but it's still weird.”

Jean thought on that for a moment. “Because he changed?”

“Maybe? I don't know.” Peter always hated trying to put words to his emotions, trying to explain them. 

It's times like these that he truly misses Wanda, when she would just know - know what he was feeling, what he wanted, what he needed, was the connection to the world around him that moved too slow, just as he was a barrier for her. For the past seven years he’s had to navigate the world without her. Man, if only she could see him now. 

“He changed, Raven changed, Hank changed, hell even Erik did. For a guy that moves so fast, I guess I'm a bit slow on the uptake.”

“You've changed too, you know.” And he knows Jean always says things as they are, that her words aren't meant for comfort so much as clarity, but the warmth of those words still makes his insides squirm.

“Pfft yeah a little, at like, twenty-eight.”

“Everyone changes,” she has a sorta sad look to her eyes when she says that, and Peter wonders if she's lumping herself into that statement and despises the words as she says them. “That's how we are, for better or worse. We adapt.”

Alright, Maximoff, time to lighten the load. “Grow? Move forward? Evolve, maybe? Dare I say,” Peter grins as he sees the dawning realization on Jean's face. “Mutate?”

Jean groans aloud and swats at his arm. “I'm being serious, Peter.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. That's why I say stupid shitty puns, because you're always serious.”

“Really? I thought it was just your bad sense of humor.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch. Second, my humor is top notch quality, puns and all.”

“Self deprecation included?”

“Jeez,” he grumbles, but feeling very proud at her cutthroat game. “Kick me while I'm down, won't you.”

“Alright, if you insist,” and bulldozing over Peter's explanation of rhetorical questions really not needing to be answered, “I think you're uncomfortable because not only has Professor changed, but he believes you can, too, into the best possible version of you. He cares about you, just like Raven and Doctor McCoy and that sincerity from older peers, from those you look up to - it scares you. You don't think you deserve their praise and-”

“Okay okay okay okay,” Peter tries to overcome her continued assault of his insecurities by literally plugging his ears and chanting over her, because wow, hammer meets nail with exact precision, and jeez, she does not need to take his sullen challenges at face value, he gets it, she's a telepath and he is not very good at actually masking his feelings when he is given genuine support, like he actually would prefer another round with Apocalypse dude than face embarrassing himself because he can't accept a simple _‘Well done, Peter’._ “Please stop, I am well aware of my own shortcomings, thank you.”

“They're not shortcomings,” she says like it's very obvious and Peter is very sad and dumb for not realizing that.

“Sure,” and he's about to say _‘Tell that to my track record,’_ but he has since learned his lesson and instead says, practically begging for mercy, “Just don't tell the others any of this.”

Jean sighs the same way Xavier does, like maybe she learned that from him or maybe that's just the kind of sound Peter makes people use when they're so done with him. “You're going to have to talk to him eventually, you know.”

“I talk to Xavier every week already, I'm not gonna turn him into my therapist.”

“That's not what I meant,” and no, it isn't, but she still totally thinks he should do that, too.

Peter sighs and combs his hair back a few times and clears the table and cleans and puts away the dishes before addressing the loaded gun Jean just put on the table, and Peter thinks that no matter how he answers, it's going to be a Russian Roulette of getting a very unneeded lecture. “If he wants to talk, I'm right here, not like I'm going anywhere.”

Instead of drawing out the dreadful conversation like he expected, Jean gave him one last meaningful look, as if he should know what she's thinking, since he's not the telepath here, but yeah okay, he knows what she means. What he said is still true though - if Erik wants to talk to him, Peter isn't that hard to find. Peter doesn't even know what Erik would want to say to him besides further emphasis on how much he is _not_ Peter's father, which, fair, he can't blame the dude.

Jean goes ahead and plops herself on the couch of the TV room, summoning a comforter from the closet and a book from one of the many shelves to make a cozy nest, and Peter, needing his morning laps, runs around the estate while trying very hard not to think about his not-father. 

It's nearly five and will be another two hours or so before others start waking up for the day, and while dodging kids is a fun game, there's something nice about the place when it's quiet and the sun is barely rising. Sometimes he spots Erik on a morning walk, and in his weaker moments, Peter will stand beside him and overlook the lake, pretend they're hanging out and that Erik doesn't hate his guts. Today is just a regular day though, but he has a feeling he won't be moving much from the couch once the others join them. 

It doesn't take long for the first body to appear, and unsurprisingly it is Kurt, done with his morning prayer, which Peter only eavesdropped on once because for one, it was quiet and boring, and two, Peter never really believed in anything grand and holy so it was just confusing and possibly a very intrusive thing for him to do. Kurt doesn't pop into the room like he used to do, having learned his lesson when Jean sent him sprawling across the building, and instead meanders his way in with a soft, thin sheet that he then uses to wrap himself in as he curls up on the carpeted floor in front of the couch. 

Peter pops in, not at all considerate enough to slow down, to lay claim to the other side of the couch where Jean is starting to snooze off, hankering down under the blanket for maximum coze before Ororo makes her way down and inevitably steals his spot by shoving him over. It wouldn't be so bad if the three of them didn't run as hot as heaters, making the couch a great source of warmth for Kurt, but absolutely blazing for Peter. He could chill on the floor, but that would mean Scott gets the couch, and that loser is usually the last to show, so he doesn't get that luxury, though with the way he leans back against Jean's knees, Peter doesn't think the dude really minds.

“Sunday morning cartoons, Kurt?” 

“No, thank you,” and then he has the audacity to pull out a giant tomb onto his lap.

The book looks new and pristine, but either way it's probably still boring, or maybe Peter is just bored. “Music videos?”

“No, thank you.”

“Game shows?”

“Peace and quiet are good to enjoy for this kind of day.”

“Dude, c'mon, I'm dying here, throw me a bone.”

Kurt shushes him, like, legit a quiet but firm shush, like he's a librarian and Peter is causing a ruckus, which, excuse him, he's maintaining a decent volume, thank you. “Jean is sleeping.”

“Yeah, I know, it's ass o'clock early and we've been up since like, three.”

“Perhaps you should take a nap.”

And okay, now Peter really feels like a chastised child.

“Respect your elders,” and Peter is so not pouting to a kid over ten years his junior. He knows he's getting through by the minute swishes of Kurt's tail and the fact he hasn't turned a new page yet. “What're you even reading?”

Then his blue friend perks up at the question and immediately turns to him and starts babbling about a new bible. 

“Hold on there, bucko,” Peter interrupts as he pulls forth what he vaguely remembers of religion. “They made a new bible? Can they do that?”

“It is a new English translated edition, still being verified and studied,” and bless the little crawler, he is so excited. 

Peter has no idea what to do with that kind of enthusiasm over sacred text. He never went to church, his mother far too busy to take them, though she would indulge in telling them about her parents and where she came from. Peter never really paid attention, of course, but sometimes, when he was very little and very much a mama's boy, he would take naps on her lap as she spoke to him in a language he has long since forgotten. It might have been Polish, he isn't sure, but it was nice and he had his mom and Wanda, before either of their powers grew and mom wasn't kind of scared of Wanda. Plus, none of the churchgoing kids hung out with him and Wanda - shocker, he knows.

“Uhh, if it's not ready yet, then why is it out?”

“Oh! That is because it is not officially available yet!”

“Then, how do you have it?” And the moment Peter asks that, Kurt is staring at his book with a furrowed look, like he doesn't know how the thing got there in the first place.

“It was...a gift,” and Peter can tell Kurt is starting to put pieces together, and Peter is suspicious, but he's more excited to see Kurt's conclusion. This sounds juicy. “From Mystique.”

Peter is not surprised at all, but oh man, is he so fucking amused and giddy, he is trying very hard not to laugh in Kurt's face and make him feel bad or wake Jean up. Raven literally stole a new bible that isn't even published yet. She has just solidified her spot as forever being his hero.

Kurt must be suspecting something when he sees Peter's clear humor, but the dude hugs his book closer to his chest, like it means more to him now. “I'm sure she didn't-”

“Uh huh,” Peter can't even let him finish that sentence, that's a whole new level of denial because when does Raven do anything without purpose and an absurdly huge amount of preparation, like of course she did.

“I mean, it will be out soon-”

“Mmhmm.”

“I'm not giving it back,” which, fair, he shouldn't, but also it was a gift from someone that Peter is sure does not give out, let alone steal for, from probably high security, gifts often. 

He vaguely wonders why she did so now, but he really does not want to try to figure out Raven's brain and thought process, he'd probably end up crying and looking really uncool.

Peter pats Kurt's shoulder in mock sympathy, “I won't tell a soul.”

That doesn't seem to relieve his stress over the matter, his tail waving dangerously around in threat of smacking Peter in the face. “I'll pray an extra hour tonight. Every night. For the next week, no, month!”

“I, uh, don't think you need to go that far. What's done is done, dude. Also, I'm pretty sure if you pray for Raven she’ll sneeze and worry that someone is talking about her or something, and that will only make her more paranoid than usual, which means harder training sessions for us, and I really don't want to see how much bruising my body can take.”

“But I-”

“Look, my good blue bro,” Peter starts, sliding down from the couch and plopping next to Kurt, his arm effortlessly around the kid's shoulders, and man, is this kid thin. “Do all the penance or repenting or praying or whatever that is, you want. But what's done is done, and really, it would be a shame if you didn't enjoy the heck outta that book that Raven oh so graciously got for you. It's not really stealing if it's just a copy and it was going to be available to the public anyway, right?”

Kurt opens his mouth, probably to protest Peter's flawless logic.

“Right. So, you sit there and read and worry about the old Catholic guilt later.” Peter pauses for a moment, thinks on that statement and rephrases, “Unless it's another guilt complex. It doesn't have to be Catholic, but I assumed so because you are, aren't you?” 

Kurt nods.

“Okay, now, have fun with your book. I'm gonna go wake Scott up and it's gonna be hilarious." Peter doesn't wait for a reply before he speeds off.

While Peter is in no way religious, like there might be an afterlife or there might not be but either way it's going to be a long while before Peter finds out, he just doesn't enjoy cramping on other's styles. So long as they don't cramp on his, and Kurt is anything but a cramper. He's a good kid with stellar fashion choices and surprisingly wicked humor, and Peter will be twice damned if he let's anything put a frown on this sunshine kid's face.

Scott, on the other hand, is absolutely free game.

That is to say, they're both open targets to each other at all times. And luckily for Peter, he has plenty of time to spare. Which means, right before everyone wakes up and especially before Scott's alarm blares his shitty pop music, Peter can bust in and wake his lazy ass up. He has done so a total of nine times thus far, all of them hilarious. Sometimes he loads Scott's hand with shaving cream, an instant classic as he smacks himself. Then there is the water balloon wake up call, which never fails, and usually ends with the entire house getting involved, so Peter only does that on really hot days. There is also the tactic of moving Scott's bed to the middle of the estate for everyone to witness him in his boxers, but Scott always retaliates by burning one of Peter's shirts as target practice. But if the weather's too nasty, Peter manages to put him in the middle of the living room, but Xavier always disapproves of that one. 

Everyone seems to be for a particularly chill day, though, so Peter decides on one of his more tame pranks. Still effective for a few laughs, and maybe a bit underhanded, but hey, what's there to lose, right. He just needs a few things for his plan, and that means getting some outside assistance.

Now, being so early in the morning, there is a fifty percent chance on said assistance still being asleep. To avoid getting electrocuted, Peter always scouts ahead by running up the side of the building and peeking through the window to decide whether or not he wants to then knock on the door or just zoom in and get what he needs. He could speed in either way, but he knows the other enjoys the mischief as much as he does, no matter what kind of stoic hard outer shell she puts on. Xavier would call it team bonding. Wanda would call it making friends. Peter is always more likely to agree with his sister than Xavier, even if she is an echo in his brain and not actually ever here with him.

Peter knocks on the door as he walks in.

"And what do you have planned for today, hmm?" Ororo asks as she lazily flips another page of her magazine, already aware of Peter’s intentions. She's awake and talking and that's good enough for Peter.

"I need some of your makeup," and he's already digging through her box of eyeshadow and blush, the stuff she got with Jubes and Jean when they took her to the mall some weeks ago, and of course she went for the radical colors, because she’s a radical chick.

It doesn't take long for Ororo to throw aside her zine and join him through the scrounging - relatively speaking, because everything everyone does takes too long for Peter, but he can recognize that she is immediately on board, which he absolutely appreciates. There aren't a lot of folks at the mansion that actively encourage and help with Peter's pranks, either because they view it as childish (Hank and Raven, though the latter can pull schemes that are downright wicked) or because they're afraid of getting in trouble with Xavier (basically everyone else), except those who are neither and just don't want to get involved (Jean). But after her worries of getting kicked out and abandoned were soothed, because Xavier would never do such a thing, the softie, Ororo was all on board of occasionally encouraging the disaster that are Peter's bad ideas.

And hey, everyone has fun with them, so really, it's his duty and they should all be grateful.

The fun thing about having Ororo in the mix is that she doesn't pick sides. Sure, she's helping Peter pick out the best colors to splash on Scott's face, but she is just as likely to help Scott get back at Peter, and truly, Peter can respect that. It adds to the excitement. He would never admit it aloud, since the dude already has a big enough ego, but Scott's strategies against the speedster are pretty legit, the kid learns fast, but often he falls into patterns and becomes predictable, reusing the same tactics again and again. Ororo tends to kick him into a more creative direction.

Peter is very proud of them both, really he is, in that older brother capacity that swells in his chest, like an uncomfortably wholesome balloon, like when Wanda played with her magic and did her first intentional hex, or when Linda punched a boy's nose at school when he was being a jerk. It's an odd feeling to have for a bunch of teenagers who are his equals on a team, but hey, emotions are tricky and Peter doesn't like to sort em out very often, if ever.

"I want pictures this time," Ororo says as they finalize the palette Peter is going to put on Scott's face. 

"Then you better be fast enough to get one. He’ll be down soon," Peter says, already on his way out, armed and loaded. 

If one of the girls wants a pic, well, they're going to have to get that themselves. Peter never documents his work, doesn't take pictures or videos or whatever because that would defeat the purpose. Like adding blackmail to the mix. They don't do this to have shit over the other's head, that's just not how they work, that's not why they do this.

See, when the Apocalypse-that-wasn't happened, there were a lot of people that died. The death count rose every day as bodies were found and hospitals grew more and more crowded. It was hard to focus on when they were all in their own little world out in Westchester, and while they couldn't ignore that news for long, because hello, they were harboring a wanted criminal, some of them were also dealing with the fallout of having lost loved ones as well. Some kids were rushed home, if they had a family to be rushed back to. Some dealt with the loss as the estate was being rebuilt.

Peter always prides himself on being fast, because he knows he's fast, but he also knows that despite that he's also late. They lost one person in the explosion, someone Peter didn't even realize was there.

Alex Summers. Scott's older brother.

The weeks after everything kinda went back to normal, Scott started acting out more. Well, not like Peter had when he was teenager, what with the stealing and graffiti and skipping class, but in his own Scott way. He took charge during training, trying to prove himself worthy of being there, of being on the team his brother was once on. His temper was short, and Peter can’t say what the kid was like before or that Peter doesn’t get on everyone’s nerves, but whatever quip Peter said or whatever move Peter did during training, Scott was ready to tear his throat out. And honestly, it fucking sucked. Peter wanted to stay, to be a part of the team, and that wouldn't work very well if the self proclaimed leader hated his guts, but there wasn’t a whole lot Peter could do because he deserved it. 

Peter didn’t save Alex. Scott had every right to hate him.

Except that isn’t how everyone else saw it, and surprise surprise, they came to his defense, which he totally did not need. Maybe there were some wires crossed, or some latent guilt shit buried deep, Peter doesn’t know because Wanda was always better at the whole brain and feelings thing, but what he knows is that he deserved the shit he got from Scott no matter what everyone else said, no matter the pointed glares from Jean or the sad eyes from Kurt or the extra distraction Ororo provided or the soft insistings on talking about it that Xavier constantly pulled. They were all wrong. Peter didn’t save Alex. Just like he couldn’t find Erik fast enough and save his real family or tell him the truth soon enough to stop his madness. Just like he couldn’t help Wanda with her powers or stop the tension between her and mom, or stop her from leaving home forever. Peter just stands there like an idiot, for once in his useless life not saying a word until it's too late.

Except, even Peter has his limits. After some weeks he got tired of Scott's shit, tired of the snark and training sessions gone wrong, just plain frustrated the kid couldn't fucking say what he meant, let it all out in one go and stop dragging it out. And yeah, that was probably insensitive, but Peter Did. Not. Care. So, with the advantage of having the Danger Room at his disposal, Peter closed the door behind the others and locked Scott and him in to get everything out. Peter said some things he probably should not have, but he needed to push Scott into actually saying something meaningful.

Suffice to say, there was a lot more crying and bonding that happened than Peter expected.

Because it turns out, that while yeah, Scott blamed him for not saving Alex, that only lasted for like a week, and then he started noticing the similarities between Peter and Alex, the smart-assery and the cool guy attitude and unrelenting teasing, and Scott felt weirdly guilty for trying to replace his brother with Peter, which was 1) absolutely not what that was, 2) kinda sweet and not something he should feel guilt over, and 3) as shocking to Peter as the fact that Scott didn't hate him, even more so, actually. Their heart to heart knocked Peter down a few pegs and really shone some new light on his teammate, probably friend now, and Peter couldn't just leave the dude hanging. 

They were amicable, but intolerant of the other's bullshit, got each other's backs, but will totally stick a _kick me_ sign on them. And what do you know, it works. 

Besides, Peter already has experience as an annoying and troublesome older brother.

So, here they are, Peter chilling on the couch with Ororo and Jean, who are each looking at him with giddy and chastising looks, respectively. It does not take very long for the show to commence. Scott walks into the room, hair perfectly combed into place, and none the wiser of the colors adorning his face. There are already a few of the younger kids awake and failing to inconspicuously follow him, no doubt aware that something entertaining is about to take place. 

Peter thinks it's Jean that will tell him, but then Kurt pipes up, completely oblivious to the can of laser beam worms he's opening, "You look very colorful today, Scott. Though, the blush is a bit heavy on your cheeks, hm?" Okay, so maybe not oblivious at all.

Scott stops in his tracks and the room holds its collective breath. Peter sees Ororo grabbing for her polaroid camera, and the children behind Scott scrambling to get inside the room - either to clear the exit or get a front row view. He also sees Scott lift his hand and wipe at his face, Peter sees the moment Scott notices something is there and the minute shifts of his expression, the confusion and the realization and then the anger. It's truly a beautiful sight to behold. 

Peter is already gone, out of room and up on the main stairway when Scott bellows out his name. A selfishly gleeful part of him really hopes Ororo got that moment on film.

"Causing mischief so early in the morning?" 

A sudden weight crashes down on Peter's shoulders. He can't help the lag in answering because he's processing the fact that Erik is talking to him at all, like actually using words and his own face to speak directly to Peter’s face. After weeks or months or however long Erik spent avoiding Peter, he’s finally here not avoiding his own son. It’s like a dream come true, or maybe nightmare, Peter isn’t sure, but the uncomfortable squeezing in his chest is probably indicative of something bad. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to say to the man that abandoned him twice, but is now standing over him on the steps, one of his eyebrows all raised and questioning like Peter is some child to be chastised.

In lieu of an actual answer, Peter shrugs.

“I’m gonna ruin your entire freakin’ wardrobe, you-!” Ah, there’s Scott now, several rooms down. Nice timing.

“What did you do to Summers?” Erik asks like this is a normal thing they do, sit around on the stairwell and await Peter’s retribution, or like, just casually hang out. 

Any maybe that is exactly what Erik is doing, except Peter is so blind sided by this, he has no idea what to do or how to act or what to say, he’s lost all thought just like he did during the not-apocalypse. He guesses he can only function during one interaction with Erik, and that one instance he used up to confess that they were actually blood related. Everything else from then on is just going to be Erik hating his guts and trying to tolerate Peter’s existence, maybe showcase to Xavier that he isn’t going to murder Peter in his sleep, like _‘Look, Charles, I can play nice’_ , while Peter tries to keep his life on track and move on from the fact that his father, not father, Erik doesn’t want to be around him. Peter has gotten used to the whole abandonment thing by now, or at least that’s what he tells himself. He’s pretty sure Xavier would love to talk to him about that whole clusterfuck that are his issues, but no thank you, there is a reason Peter is infinitely relieved that telepaths can’t access his thoughts.

“Decorated his face with makeup,” Peter finally says when he stops gawking at Erik like an idiot. “Can’t see the colors with his glasses.”

“Clever,” and wow, is that a compliment, Peter feels like he just got zapped by one of Storm’s lightning bolts while at the same time he feels all warm and nice, because Peter got a compliment! “Though, a bit underhanded, isn’t it?” 

The smile Erik gives him is just a tad on the creepy side of sharp and dangerous, like he approves of Peter being underhanded, and while that may be true, since Peter is not at all an up and front confrontational guy, that doesn’t mean he wants the dude who is an international terrorist to approve of it. Peter has other qualities besides being a thief and delinquent, and he’s trying his best to be a good person and maybe one day he can actually call himself a hero, yet here he is getting praised by his own father, _not father_ , Erik for being bad.

“It’s just a prank, dude,” Peter snaps, and maybe he shouldn’t snap at the man that can shoot metal into him, but whatever. “No harm, no foul.”

“Maximoff, get your scrawny ass down here!” 

“Now, excuse me, I gotta lock my room up.” Peter leaves it at that, not able to trust himself not to say more, not to spit out words he doesn’t want to say even though he really, really does, because no matter what, he’ll mess it all up and Erik will just walk away again, so why make it worse. He’s having a fun day, why ruin it?

Besides, Peter isn’t a bad person and doesn’t want to join a league of evil mutants, and him and Scott have an understanding, so the pranks aren’t even that bad. In fact, he almost wants to say that the friends he’s made here understand him pretty damn well. Jean and Kurt and Ororo, and hell, Hank and Raven too - they get him and they won’t leave him behind or abandon him on the steps or anything like that. 

They’re totally all the family Peter needs here.

\---

Erik's plan for an undetermined time was to continue with Charles's advice, and observe Peter, his son, from afar. Perhaps gather enough information to actually utilize in a conversation. Were he an optimist, which he is most definitely is not, Erik would say he has learned quite a bit about Peter already.

He knows that Peter will eat just about anything. There is no food in the world the speedster won’t consume with enthusiasm. Though there is hesitation with McCoy’s own formulated, calorie dense nutrient bars, Peter still scarfs them down. And he eats more than any person should be able to. Looking over his records and McCoy’s research, possibly without permission, Erik learns that Peter’s mutation requires an extreme load of calories in order for him not only to use his gifts, but to merely function.

On that note, Erik knows a significant more about Peter’s gifts than he had before. While Peter is able to move incredibly fast, that is his entire state of constant being. The moments Peter moves and interacts at a regular pace is when he is forcing himself to slow down for others. His brain is constantly going. Erik had taken some time wondering how that must have been for a young child, to come into his mutation, to be leagues faster than everything around him and no one to explain it to him, no one to help. There is no doubt in Erik’s mind that Marya tried her best, but from the months he has been around Peter, he knows that parenting him would have been a handful, especially for a normal human. 

Still, Erik regrets never having the chance.

Erik knows that Peter enjoys loud music. The Walkman device is never far from the young man's hip, it is only gone when he is training or on missions. When Erik lived in Poland, him and Magda only had a radio, and even then it barely had reception for music stations. Once in awhile they would catch a tune or two, but most of their music exposure was only when they attended gatherings with friends (no, not friends, never friends, humans and traitors and murderers, they were never friends). Peter likes his music fast and obnoxious, more noise than anything harmonious and pleasant. Perhaps it is the decade they live in, or the younger generations, or something entirely Peter. Erik does not suspect he will ever understand, but he knows it is Peter’s preference, and that it is a great deal of importance to his son. 

Sometimes he fools with the idea of asking Peter for a music lesson. When he has gathered the courage and the capability of approaching the young man to have an actual, real conversation. It would be a good first start, something to broach the barrier between them, an olive branch. Erik imagines them actually spending time together and revels in the warmth that fantasy brings before realizing it is ridiculous that he cannot bring himself to talk to Peter in the first place. 

Erik also knows that Peter takes risks with himself. Having watched the new X-Men's training these past few weeks. The speedster is always the first on the field, scouting to ensure it is safe for his teammates, and Erik dreads the day a real mission shows them that the world can be dangerous for powerful mutants, even for Quicksilver. 

But Peter knows that by now, doesn’t he? 

He has lived with his mutation for nearly two decades, has seen what both humans and mutants can do to others. From Trask to Stryker, from En Sabah Nur to Magneto himself, his son has seen, has experienced plenty. But there is still so much more terror in the world. There will always be threats.

Worse yet, there is even danger from within.

Erik always believed Charles to be the most powerful telepath, and despite their complicated history, he always respected the other. Proof of the contrary came in the form of a brilliant, redheaded little girl, who has since become a blazing inferno of a young woman. Possibly the most terrifying potential Erik has ever seen. He hopes Charles has taught her how to harness her power, hopes the X-Men can temper her darker aspects, that they keep her grounded and intact. Erik hopes she does not fall down the path he did, the one full of anger and loss.

On the border of night and morning, far too early for anyone in the mansion to be awake, Erik is immediately aware of the telepathic disturbance. Charles had warned him of them once, when they were discussing his students' progress with their training. Instinct and his unwillingness to stay inactive had Erik moving. Before he knew it, he was in Charles' room, not even bothering to knock. It needn't matter, anyway, as the man was already awake and aware of their situation.

"Should we go to her?" Erik asks in a low tone, watching as Charles keeps his eyes closed and a hand to his temple.

"No," he says at first, and after a moment repeated it with conviction and relief. "No, it's quite alright now. Nothing to worry about tonight." Though despite his words he still looks exhausted and worn out.

"Did you-?"

"Oh no, not me," Charles says, laying back down with a heavy sigh. "Your son has a knack for being nosy. He's well intentioned, of course, but often times it backfires on him. Surprisingly, his methods also work very well."

"Peter calmed Jean down?" That is definitely unexpected, and Erik isn't sure if he should be worried or proud.

"Yes, he more than often tries to assist before anyone else when she has a nightmare like this. He approaches her with subtle, persistent annoyance and music to steadily wake her up, ensures she isn't too startled."

"Sounds dangerous," and Erik should have foreseen the flat, pointed look Charles gave him in reply, but he doesn't regret his words.

Instead of falling for the bait, Charles makes himself comfortable, likely not wanting to argue when he would much rather be sleeping. With the crisis averted, Erik should head to bed himself, he knows. But he does not quite want to just yet.

"Peter mentioned doing much the same for his sister, when she had nightmares." And Charles mentions this so casually, like an afterthought despite the moments of pause in their conversation. Underhanded and sharp; the qualities Erik always admired in his friend when he brandished them. And often, they were used against Erik.

"His...sister?" Something short circuits in Erik's brain. He knows of Peter's mother, yet he never once considered the possibility that she moved on, had other kids, that Peter would have siblings.

"Yes," Charles starts, once again soft, like he can see the confusion on Erik's face. "He has a younger sister he often talks to and visits. She has shown no signs of being a mutant, but Peter never has anything short of beaming pride when he talks about her."

Erik wonders if Peter talks about his family often, his real family, the ones he grew up with and who cared for him. A stubborn flare flickers inside him at the reminder that he wasn't there for Peter, and is still not there as he divulges his home life to Charles. "That's good. I am relieved he at least talks to you about-"

"Oh Erik," Charles sighs, all exasperated and fond. "We both know Peter does not entrust important details of his life to me. Yes, I have his records and emergency contacts, but the ones he talks to most are his teammates. I'm fairly certain Jean knew about his sister than anyone else."

That uncomfortable knowledge that Peter is constantly around a massive powerhouse resurfaces, but is tempered by the reassurance that Peter knows how to successfully keep her grounded to reality. The bitter reminder that Erik still does not know a great deal about Peter, about his home life and his relations, quickly overcomes him.

"Now, why don't you fetch us some water from the kitchen? Since we'll be awake for a bit longer. With our talking I'm going to be a tad parched."

Erik nods, a bit lost in his thoughts as he sets on his task. 

It isn't until he reaches the bottom of the stairs that he realizes he could have gotten a glass from the private bathroom. Charles had sent him down here on purpose. That purpose makes itself known when Erik hears voices from the kitchen.

Peter and Jean.

"Okay okay, but seeing Scotty in underwear would definitely be a terrifying dream!" Peter's voice travels out well, though he is trying to be quieter.

There is a huff. "I wouldn't say it's a _terrifying_ dream, really." Jean speaks with a rasp and slight sniffle. Erik thinks she may have only just stopped crying.

"Ew! Ugh gross! Why would even say that! I do not need to know that. I am your teacher, Miss Grey!" Peter's over the top disgust startles a giggle out of Jean, and while Erik does not dare to move any closer, he knows the boy is doing exaggerated arm movements.

"You're not my teacher, Peter. You only get to terrorize the children."

Peter stumbles over his words, "That's not the point!"

"What is your point? Do teenagers kissing make you squeamish?" Jean teases, obviously taking joy is Peter's discomfort.

"I mean, not the general principle of it all, like go ahead and neck each other, but I really don't wanna be around to see it! Like, you guys don't even know how to hold hands without being all sweaty and gross, let alone give good kisses without trying to devour the other's face off. You're amateurs, all of you. And I especially don't want to see Scott kissing anyone. Like, why would I want that? Why would you want that?"

"Don't be an ass. I don't want him kissing anyone else, either. And besides, when two people like each other a lot-"

Peter sputters. Erik doesn't know if Jean gained more from her mentor than an understanding of her powers, or if the sass is all her. "Stop stop stop! I am way too old to be having this conversation."

Jean's hum in reply was full of disbelief.

Peter seems to constantly have his foot in his mouth when confronted with his own words, and Erik cannot think of a better person to make him stumble than telepath. Though he knows the speedster is a natural deterrent for that, they at least have some leverage when trying to keep up with him. Erik certainly wouldn't mind the help. 

He supposes this was Charles's intent all along. To have him listen, observe, learn something more about his son. 

With heart pounding courage, Erik carefully steps closer, enough so that a wall's mirror grants him somewhat of a picture. He has the opportunity to see Peter an interesting shade of red, apparently from something Jean had said.

"I've had plenty of experience, okay. I'm not some blushing maiden or whatever. In fact, I was so cool I skipped dweeby high school girls and went straight to college chicks."

"Not all of us are dweebs," Jean says, and something about her strikes Erik as odd.

"Okay, yeah sure, you are obviously the exception, Jean Bean. You're awesome." Jean seems to perk up at the praise. "And Ororo and Jubes aren't bad either." Jean slightly deflates. Erik thinks he has connected the two dots. "I'm saying teenagers back when I was a teen."

Erik watches as Peter explains how he snuck into college parties, out drank those years older than him, and, as he so eloquently puts it, _'scored a lot'._ Something extremely paternal demands Erik step out there and throw a fuss. Everything else tells him there is no point, that Peter is a grown adult now, has had his experiences, and there is nothing for Erik to say about it. Though that doesn't mean he has to enjoy the tales.

"So, what you're saying," Jean says with blessed patience, definitely learned from Charles. "Is that you've never had a girlfriend? Like, a real steady one. Or boyfriend."

Peter chokes on his bite of ice cream. "I mean, do you really think I do anything steady?"

And Erik is sure Peter does not mean it as teasing as it sounds, but with his lop sided smirk and the way Jean takes a quick moment to eye him up and down, Erik is certain his suspicions are correct.

"Besides," Peter continues, "I go too fast for everyone, anyway. And I can't exactly bring someone up to speed or even slow myself down. Not to mention the whole, ya know, stupid anti-mutant bullshit out there kinda makes dating really tricky. It's just always been easier to charm em and then leave, like some grand mystery they can remember with nostalgia. The one that got away."

"Sounds lonely."

Peter shrugs at that, and Erik briefly wonders if this is what they will get a chance to talk about. If Peter will ever want to speak so freely with him, will want advice from Erik. 

On second thought, maybe Erik is not the one to give advice on love, considering his own track record.

With that bitter thought in mind, Erik slips away upstairs, leaving the two friends to their chat and ice cream. When he gets back into Charles's room, he is sitting up in bed with a book and a glass of water on his nightstand.

"Underhanded, I know, but I do hope you learned something," Charles says.

Instead of divulging the intimate knowledge of Peter's past, Erik reveals what he knows he saw. "Did you know your protege has a teenage crush on my son?" 

The blank look on his dear friend's face tells him everything.

"I think Peter is too blind to the idea of anyone seeing him with romantic intentions, or anything deeper than shallow attraction," Erik continues. He hadn't quite put the thought together until he said it aloud, and then he felt the wash of pity for Peter. 

Well, not pity exactly. More sadness than anything. And the unwarranted desire to hug him very tightly.

"Peter does tend to have a… habit of selling himself short. I don't think he has a very high opinion of himself." And that just makes Erik angry. "Come now, leave them to their morning ice cream." Charles pats the spot next to him, which Erik tiredly drops into, aware he still in his pajamas. "You will have plenty of time for more stalking, and eventually talking, later."

Despite his early revelation, Erik cannot help but still yearn for the possibility of talking with his son, of getting to exchange stories without Erik eavesdropping in on him. 

It is those thoughts and Charles's voice that eventually soothe him back to sleep.

Maybe it is a coincidence, or maybe it is a part of Charles’s design when he sends Erik down to breakfast when they are both awake again not long later. But either way, Erik finds himself stuck at the top of the staircase, with Peter sitting right on the steps below him.

He would loathe to admit that he froze on the spot, would deny the alarms of panic that spiked through him, and would menace if anyone found out his momentary lapse of social grace, of being unable to speak to his own son.

_Small steps, Erik. It'll pave the way for future opportunities._

_This is entirely of your doing, isn’t it Charles?_

_Remember: small, easy steps._

_This is anything but easy!_

But he tries. He really does. Except, while their time is brief, it is not at all easy. Erik is fairly certain that he ruined any chance of a repeat, just as he tends to ruin everything else dear to him. 

The moment Erik speaks, he sees the tension course through Peter’s entire frame, he sees how the boy goes rigid under Erik’s presence, no matter how much he tries to compensate with over confidence. Erik immediately regretted his decision, yet the prospect of success, the ridiculous shred of hope that Peter reciprocates the desire to converse keeps Erik right where he is. He so badly wants this to work, that he forgets himself entirely.

Where it all went wrong, Erik is not entirely certain of. He graced the boy with a compliment, tried to be friendly and approachable, yet something he said or did suddenly had Peter’s hackles up, had him throwing down biting words before disappearing up the rest of the stairs. Erik vaguely wondered if the lost feeling of confusion and frustration was how Peter felt when Erik left him on the outside steps that day many weeks ago. If maybe the rare ire was Erik’s rightful punishment for the wrongs he had done towards his son.

_Charles, this was a disaster. I shouldn’t have bothered him._

_Now, old friend, you're not going to make progress if you only stalk him._

_It’s observing, and no progress is better than ruining everything._

_I'm sure it was merely a misunderstanding. One moment and I'll check on him._

_Charles, you do know Peter is just as unlikely to talk to you about this as he is to me._

The responding silence tells Erik everything he needs to know. They are both rather lost in the face of Erik seeking human connection. It would be humorous, if it weren’t so pathetic.

Unwilling to face his mistakes, Erik decides on a small, quick breakfast before secluding himself out in the garden. He doubts he will be interrupted by any nosy students out there, as the morning it already proving the rest of the day to be filled with rain. A slight drizzle never deterred Erik before, and something about the grey sky and steady trickle of rain calms something inside him. It is like picking at old scabs, sitting out among nature and being left with his thoughts. Or perhaps, it is just another means of opening the floodgates within him. Tears are not so easy to fall these days, so the rain is an acceptable substitute as he recalls the memories of his Nina frolicking in puddles. Yes, he is aware that replacing the shame of failure with the familiar balm of sadness is not healthy, but Erik has never claimed himself to be as such.

Some time passes, enough that the earlier discomfort has faded, and the wetness of his outer shirt finally compels him to retreat back inside. Shedding the plaid and drying his hair with a towel, Erik almost forgets his current situation until he hears the high pitched sound of children’s laughter. Among them is a small, bell like giggle, feminine and slightly squeelish, and that tugs on his heart painfully so. It beckons him forward until he reaches the doorway of the living room.

Erik knows that he will not find his lost little girl, knows he should never hope for it. Yet the ache of disappointment still clenches him tight when there is no Nina present. He forces himself to breathe.

Upon the floor, Peter sits surrounded by the three children they rescued a while back. His laughter is loud and quick, there and gone in an instant, but his mischievous smile still lingers, as if awaiting the next laugh. Erik is suddenly very aware of his own shortcomings as a father, when he realizes he wants so much to be the cause of his son's joy.

Instead of repeating his previous failings, he forces himself to watch. 

One of the children stands behind Peter, brushing his grey hair and filling it with random, colorful clips. The two other children focus their attention on a palette of colors shared between them before brushing a selected piece onto Peter’s cheek. His face looks like he stepped out of a circus ring. Erik cannot recall ever witnessing Peter be so still before, though he knows his own experience is lacking. Peter does not flit in and out of his spot, obviously not wanting to disturb the children and their tasks of using him as a giant doll. He does not seem to mind. In fact, during their play, Peter is actually keeping himself busy. A girl in a bright yellow sweater sits in front of him, talking faster than anyone without speedster powers should. Her long black hair is quickly braided under Peter’s surprisingly expert fingers.

It paints a peaceful, domestic scene that would be precious, if the twisted feelings of loss and jealousy didn’t churn Erik’s stomach. 

“Try the silver eyeshadow next,” Peter says, done with braiding the teenager’s hair as she examines herself in a hand held mirror. The two children seem to take his suggestion into consideration. “You can fade it with the red and it will look totally rad.” That seems to solidify their decision, and they set to their task at once.

“Kinda disturbing that you know that, Maximoff,” the young Summers boy says from the couch, his own face free from that morning’s makeup prank. He seems to be playing some technological game on the television with Nightcrawler.

“I know what colors look good on me, dude. Can’t say the same for you,” Peter snipes back, though no real heat is in either of their exchanges. It’s rather friendly, all things considered.

“Okay, so,” the teenage girl in front of Peter interjects, “this is totally gonna be a more going out look, ya know. Like, casual, but messy Madonna do without the tease. But I need something more like a wild Michelle Pfeiffer.”

“Why would you do that? Your hair is already curly.”

“Shut up, Scott! I’m not asking you!” She shouts over the boy who throws a rude gesture over while the children aren’t looking. “Anyway, Peter totally knows what I mean, right?”

Peter, who had been sitting rather still under the workings of the children’s sloppy makeup application, finally opens his eyes. He looks even more ridiculous than before. “I mean, sure, but curling is gonna take forever, and neither of us have that kinda patience. Unless, like, Scotty heats up the curlers real quick.”

“Do you want to burn Jubilee’s hair off? Cause that’s what’s gonna happen,” Summers replies, though he doesn’t sound particularly opposed to the idea. “I can make that happen.”

“Jubes, you can heat them yourself, can’t you?” Storm finally pipes up from her spot sprawled out on the floor, a magazine in hand. 

“Oh my God! You are totally right! Peter, can you grab-”

“Kinda stuck here,” Peter interrupts, the children having gone ahead and smeared a rainbow across Peter’s face. His hair is in equal disarray.

Summers laughs so hard he falls off the couch. Storm jumps up from her spot on the floor and quickly readies her camera.

“If you’re gonna take a pic, I want a copy,” Peter is grinning. He looks so pleased, as if he has no regard for the fact that he is a mess, or that Summers is taking delight in it. 

If Erik were to guess, because that is all he can do, as he does not truly know his own son, he would even say that Peter is enjoying himself. Not just for the sake of the children’s entertainment, though he is clearly soaking up their attention, but also for his own amusement. Playing with the children and having a relaxing day inside with his friends - that is where his happiness lies.

Would he have been so charming and endearing with Nina? 

The question sneaks up on him, suddenly there in his mind and refusing to leave. He hates himself for thinking it, for being unable and unwilling to let go. Erik imagines what his children would have been like together. 

Nina and her penchant for mischief would have escalated with Peter’s own brand of trouble. They would spend their days in the woods, much farther out than Nina went on her own. Peter would have certainly taken her anywhere she demanded, anywhere they could play and have fun. Erik would not have even known if they sped into the next big city, until they returned and were unable to contain their matching gleeful grins. Magda would have tried to ground them, but Peter, never one to be still, would have busted them out the moment he could have or snuck them late night snacks. Nina would try to lie for him, of course she would. When Peter causes trouble, she would smile all sly and innocent to distract them, to protect Peter. 

Nina would have adored her older brother. And what a new perspective that is. The short fantasy reel makes Erik’s chest ache with the loss of something that could have been, of what Nina and Peter could have had.

“I want to send it to my sister so she knows exactly what she’s missing,” Peter laughs, and for a brief, confusing moment Erik wonders what that sentence could possibly mean. Peter had never met- “Linda is gonna call me the moment she gets this, it’ll be hilarious.”

Oh. Of course. 

Erik had forgotten that Peter has a family, a sister. Entirely separate from Erik and his own tragedy.

“Is that why you know so much about hairstyles?” Storm asks, and Erik hangs onto the answer. Something dark twists inside him, and Erik quickly recognizes the burn of jealousy.

“I know hairstyles because of Wendy. The makeup is from years of experience babysitting little Linda.” And Peter says their names with so much care, a hint of exasperation and fondness that only true family could articulate. 

“Hold up, hold up! Peter and Wendy?” Scott starts.

Erik is pulling away from his lurking spot by the doorway before any more could be exchanged. He makes brief eye contact with Jean, as she sits cozied up in an armchair with a book, but Erik does not dare stick around to listen further or try to make sense of her pointed look. He has heard enough.

He has no right to be bitter towards Peter’s sisters, towards Marya, towards their family. Erik left her to pursue his own path, and that path took him through violence, through strife, brought him to Charles and Raven, and ultimately lead him to Magda and Nina, all of which he will never regret. But his wife and daughter are not here now, they are both gone forever, and all he has left is an adult son who grew up without him. Peter has no need for him, and certainly no desire to be by him at all. 

Peter has his family, his friends, his teammates. They are the ones Peter talks to, divulges his secrets to. He doesn’t want Erik.

So, why is Erik still here?

Because he will certainly lose Peter if he quits now, if he doesn’t try.

_Damn it, Charles, my contradictory thoughts are starting to sound like you._

_Perish the prospect of your conscious being me._

_Would a glass of scotch in the afternoon shut that voice up?_

_Hm. Maybe, better bring it along and we’ll see._

Yes, Erik wants to stay for selfish reasons, but just maybe, Peter will want him to stay, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when the next update will happen, but I do plan on finishing it!


End file.
